Darkest Before The Dawn
by Callisto Wannabe
Summary: At least a hundred moments spanning thousands of years in the history of England, from when he was an infant without a name, to a country with many. Includes OCs, and England X Many. Written using the 100 Fanfic drabble prompts from lj.
1. Arc I: When It's Over, You're The Start

**Darkest Before The Dawn**

_Hey, guys! Yeah, please don't hate me for starting a new story, I explained why in my profile. Now I'm doing this to regain what little skill at writing I have. England is my favorite character in Hetalia, and, ever since I discovered him, I've been wanting to write something about him. Thus, this story: a collection of one-shots based around the 100 prompts table from livejournal (I think). My current favorite band is Florence + The Machine, so a lot of these one-shots will either include or be based (somewhat) on her stuff (and stuff from other bands). The title of the series itself comes from her song "Shake It Out" (which is one of my many theme songs for England).I'm going to do all of the prompts, but it will involved a lot of head-canon of mine. I'll explain all of it at the end of each chapter, just hope you decide to stick with me for the ride. Some (read: many) Historical liberties are taken. So, let's get going!_

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><p><strong>Arc I: Beginnings – When It's Over, You're The Start<strong>

In the beginning, there were five of them: Eire, Alba, Cymru, Kernow, and Albion. They were the essence of the Old Ways, and the wilderness ran strong within them. They were family, yet not, and always at war, always invading.

Albion was the youngest. His family named him _Brethoc_, and he knew their names were _Báetán _(that is Eire), _M__ó__r _(Alba), _Bledri _(Cymru), and _Guencen _(Kernow). There was also Picti, but Albion did not know him and called him by the name the Romans gave him, and left Alba to deal with him, since she would suffer no one's help.

Bledri's son was the eldest of the children, and they called him _Dafydd_. They knew he would be kind like his father, with wide green eyes and great tumbles of black curls. But for now he was small, and the raven wisps of his hair were soft to the touch and waved when his father bounced him on his knee, laughing into his son's eyes and encouraging him to smile as well.

Guencen's son was the next, and his mother named him _Grifiud_. The black wisps of hair made him seem almost to be Dafydd's twin, but the blue eyes made him an individual. They grew up together, Dafydd the indulgent older brother, who grew fast and strong, and Grifiud the adoring younger brother, who tried hard to keep up.

_Dáire_ became the name of Báetán's son, and he was the most handsome of them. His auburn hair, dark green eyes, and charming smile drew the attention of any and all who looked his way, and his father prided himself that only a man such as himself could have begot so beautiful a child.

_Iamys wa_s Mór's brawny child, and she declared there would be none so strong nor so big as to defeat her boy. Iamys trailed after Dáire, and the two were nigh inseparable. Iamys stuck out the most, with his hair being a vibrant red, his eyes pale green, and, of course, his voice. He iwas loud, loud enough to shake the leaves from the very trees and to rock his mother's house down to its very foundations.

Brethoc himself did not have children. He longed often to have one, prayed for one, even. But there was no child for him to love, not for a very long time. It was when Iamys was a toddler and Dafydd near ten that Brethoc saw her. She appeared to him as though from a dream, a lioness of a woman, with wild, gold locks and laughing blue eyes. She was near as tall as him, her body strong and muscled.

She was the Saxon Tribes, having come with her husband, Saxony the Elder, to trade. She was called Adelais, and Brethoc found there was no beauty in all his land who could compare to her. Alba and Kernow scoffed at him, declaring he would find nothing but pain if he followed her, but their warning fell on deaf ears.

She came to him one night and beckoned him to come with her. Brethoc obeyed, mystified by her presence and feeling some pull towards her, and Adelais led him to the small encampment that her people had set up. The tent she dwelled in was in the center, and firelight glowed inside. When they entered, Brethoc could not help but stare at the man seated before the fire. He was Eorl, Saxony the Elder, and he, too, was beautiful. His hair was a lighter blond than his wife's, and his eyes a paler shade of blue. He wore the long locks tied back into a pony tail, with two long braids framing his face.

Those blue eyes focused on him as Adelais walked around the fire and knelt behind Eorl, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she smiled at Brethoc. Albion had turned nineteen but a month ago and the touch of both woman and man was still foreign to him. He shyly shuffled towards them, seating himself about a foot away and keeping his gaze on the fire. Why had he come here? There had been something about them, something that made him feel as though he ought to meet them. Maybe it was just that he found Adelais attractive...

But it couldn't be, because he'd always found Catuvellauni and Iceni attractive, but he'd never done anything about it...so maybe...maybe there was more to it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Eorl staring at him, blue eyes intense and darkened by...by something. The Saxon leaned forward and kissed both his cheeks, and Adelais' hand reached over to run through his hair. He'd always been proud of his hair: it swung below his waist, thick and wavy and as black as Cymru's, but softer. She tugged it gently, smiling at him and speaking to him in a language he didn't understand. It was rough and guttural, but somehow pretty, for she had a voice like thick honey, low and sweet.

Eorl's rough hands grasped his arms and he was speaking too, his voice a rich baritone. Brethoc shook his head.

"I don't understand," he told them, quietly. "I don't understand." Eorl cocked his head to the side, before clearing his throat and looking away, uncomfortable.

"You..." He said, struggling to speak Brethoc's tongue, his accent thick and almost unintelligible. "You...would like for...for to be with us, yes?" Brethoc smiled, nodding and Adelais' own smile grew before she moved from behind her husband to drape over him. Eorl pulled him forward, into his arms and the rest of the night was warm and close as the fire died beside them.

It was nine months later, and Brethoc was back to his lonely life, Kernow and Alba having given him a long speech about how he should have listened to them, shouldn't have gone near Saxony or his wife, for it could only have ended like this. With Brethoc lonely and longing for the two who had left him behind.

He rose early, gathered his sheep, and left the cottage to let them graze in the tall hills that surrounded his home. He sat quietly for a long time, just watching the creatures move about, trying not to be disappointed. What did he expect, after all? They were each other's, meant to be together, and they had simply decided to allow him the privilege of joining them. He was meant to add variety to a couple who had been together for hundreds of years. There was never going to be to it than that.

Which was why, when he returned to his modest home and saw Eorl there, at his door, waiting for him, he was honestly shocked. He ran over to the Saxon, a wide smile on his face, arms out to embrace him. But Eorl stepped back, out of his reach, unsmiling. Brethoc's smile faded.

"Please take," Eorl said, pressing a bundle into Albion's arms. The Celt stared down at the bundle and then back up at Eorl, confusion written all over his face. Whatever it was, it was moving beneath the thick blankets surrounding it. He could feel it pushing against his arms.

Eorl's face was anguished, and he stepped back again, eyes suspiciously bright. "He is...not ours," Saxony explained, accent thickened with pain. "Not yet...but he is yours...so it is for you to look after him...and, when he is ours, we will return for to take him." And then he left, Brethoc calling after him, but finding himself unable to follow.

Brethoc looked down at the tiny bundle again and, shifting it to rest in the crook of his arm, used his free hand to pull the blanket aside. He gasped.

In the bundle was a tiny baby, crying and struggling against the tightly wrapped blankets. His hair was pale yellow and hung about his head like duck fluff, and his eyes were the same green as Brethoc's. His eyebrows were thick and black.

And a smile broke out on Brethoc's face as he looked back in the direction Eorl had gone. Those few days with them had granted him his only wish: a child of his own to love and raise.

In the beginning, there had been five of them. But now, Brethoc had a new beginning: a tiny, half-Saxon child with his eyes and their hair.

His name was _Artúr_.

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><p><em>Okay, so the first story is out of the way, and I know it's probably a bit confusing. This was always going to be the hard one to do, because I had to figure out how to start off the story and introduce some really weird concepts to you guys. In order to make this a little clearer, I've included notes, and will continue to do so at the end of each story.<em>

**Notes:**

**-It is my head-canon that, rather than having one Celtic nation to embody two islands and a multitude of different, sovereign tribes, that there would be five, just like today, but with personifications for each tribe. I do sometimes, where I deem appropriate, differentiate between personifications of land, and personifications of people. **

**-I decided to use the names of the countries in their own language to differentiate between them and their children. It is another head-canon that Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and Cornwall will inherit their parents' names, whereas England will reject it.**

**-Since I am using the Celtic names for the older nations, I will be using the Roman names for the children:**

** -Ireland will be called Hibernia**

** -Scotland will be called Caledonia**

** -Wales will be called Cambria**

** -Cornwall will be called Dumnonia (may not be the Roman name, but I have found references to a kingdom in the region of Cornwall with that name, so I am using it)**

** -England will be called Britannia**

**-In regards to personal names, I am forever indebted to The Academy of Saint Gabriel, a website that offers pages upon pages of names from different countries at different times, all from historical sources. I made use of their website for the names of most of my characters, though there are some exceptions.**

** -The names for the old Celts were taken from their site: "Mór", "Báetán", "Bledri", "Guencen", and "Brethoc." They are Scots-Gaelic, Irish-Gaelic, Welsh, and Cornish and are (if I did this correctly) period appropriate.**

** -The name for Saxony the Elder (I see Himaruya's Saxony as being a later kingdom, and mine is his predecessor) is taken from the PASE database which the Academy links to in their pages on Anglo-Saxon names. I realize that the names of the Anglo-Saxons are probably quite different from the names of the Saxons on the mainland. But, I picked the name as a homage to J.R.R. Tolkien, who was himself a professor of Anglo-Saxon history and who based the culture of Rohan on them. The ancestor of the Rohirrim was named "Eorl", which is a real Anglo-Saxon name, and I wanted to use it because it was Tolkien who got me interested in Anglo-Saxon history.**

** -The names I use for the British Isles are: James (Scotland), Daragh (Ireland), Dafydd (Wales), and Grifiud (Cornwall). "Grifiud" comes from the Academy website and is a Cornish name. I could not find a reference for the name "Dafydd" dating back far enough, but I decided to take historical liberties and use it anyway, because that is the name for him that I prefer. The way I will differentiate between his early, Celtic years and the later, more modern years, is by calling him "Dafydd" in the early years and "Davy" in the modern. I also could not find a reference for "James" because it is not originally a Celtic name. So, I decided to take another historical liberty and use an older version of the name, "Iamys", and that also comes from the Academy. I could not find records for "Daragh", but I did for "****Dáire****" (but not on the Academy website), so I am using this more archaic version in the beginning, and "Daragh" for the modern era. I found a reference for "Artúr" from the Academy website, but as an Irish-Gaelic name, so I took more liberties and used it.**

**-Saxony and Saxon Tribes: This is one of those occasions where I decided to divide the Personifications between land and people. Why? Because, after the fall of the Roman Empire, there was a huge exodus of Germanic tribes, including Saxons. Naturally, there were still Saxons in Saxony, so I decided that I would have them be two different personifications: Eorl, who would be the Saxon personification on the mainland, and Adelais, the Saxon personification in Britain. They are married because I want them to be.**

** -A note on the name for the Saxon Tribes: "Adelais" is not a name from the Academy, so I cannot attest for its accuracy, but it is the name I have been using since before I found the site, so I will continue to use it (yet another historical liberty).**

**-Pict, Catuvellauni and Iceni: As I said before, I differentiate between land and people where I deem appropriate, and I deemed this another appropriate occasion. There were many, many different tribes in the British Isles way back when (Cantiaci, Regni, Coritani, Votadini, Caledonii, Silures, Dumnonii, Brigantine, etc.), and they were all different, and yet related in some way. So, I decided that while Albion, Eire, Alba, Kernow, and Cymru would represent the the regions themselves, there would be different personifications for each of the tribes.**

** -To understand, think about it like this: some people have Alfred represent the United States, but have different representatives for each of the states.**

** -I used "Pict" because that is the name for them that I could find and have people understand who I was talking about. I also used it because we, apparently, do not know what the Picts called themselves, so the Roman name (meaning "painted people") was as good as any.**

**Thank you for reading and I promise an update in the next couple days!**


	2. Arc II: For Your Sisters and Brothers

_Hey everyone! Here I am again, with more prompts from the lj table! I know that I said I would update in a few days, but I wanted to do another now. Just a note: The title of the previous chapter came from the Florence + The Machine song "No Light, No Light." This title comes from the song "Dog Days Are Over", also by Florence + The Machine._

_Another Note: I have five "writer's choice" places on the table, so I've decided to give them as thank-you's to landmark reviewers (for example: the 96th prompt is a writer's choice and will be given to the first reviewer)_

_Okay, here we go again!_

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><p><strong>Arc II: Middles – For Your Sisters and Brothers<strong>

Wessex had never had brothers before. He remembered the names of those he had thought were his brothers: Rome had called them Dumnonia, Cambria, Hibernia, and Caledonia. He had never had brothers, had never had sisters...and now he had three, and two brothers to boot. They were technically half-siblings, and he was closer to them than he had ever been to those Celts, back when he was called Britannia. He had been the youngest of them, and had wanted nothing more than to trail after them and cling to their cloaks.

He had been pushed away, not just by them, but by their parents too. They had scorned him for being the son of their enemy, Saxon Tribes, and had cast him into exile.

Now, he was pretty much a middle child, with two older siblings, and three younger ones.

There was Thrydwulf, who was Sussex and laughed constantly, sunny and handsome and joyous. He was the tallest of them, and Wessex could remember being small, those strong, calloused hands lifting him up and placing him astride broad shoulders as Sussex raced through the fields around their home. Wessex had felt as though he was flying and, by the time his older brother had put him down, his cheeks were flushed with excitement, his hair all over the place, and he was laughing as loud as Thrydwulf.

After him was Theodhild, who was Surrey and sensible. She wore her hair in tight braids coiled around her head, and stood often at the door to their home, frowning at her brothers' antics with her hands on her hips, a ladle clutched in one strong hand. _Get in here!_ She'd barked. _If my food goes cold, you two won't be laughing anymore!_ She was the cook, because she was the only one who could cook. She'd tried to teach Wessex, once, but...well. _No, no, no! Art__ú__r! Ugh, you've burnt it! _But, she'd laughed afterwards and made him sweets, smiling at him and wagging a finger in his face. _Now you listen to me, little one...you can't cook, that much is clear. And I'm not always going to be around to cook for you. So you best smarten up and find yourself a woman who can. Or a man. I won't judge. You hear?_ And Artúr had nodded vigorously, eliciting more laughter from Theodhild, and earning more sweets.

Then, there was Essex, his younger brother. He was Coenred and he was beautiful, obnoxiously so. Everything about him was beautiful, from his gold-silk hair to his cerulean eyes. He was the perfect cliché of a fairy-tale prince. When he got older, his smile made women and men alike swoon. But...but he was quiet, and incredibly shy. He didn't talk to anyone, and hid behind his older brothers. The only time he wasn't shy was in battle, and that was only because he couldn't afford to be. The only friends he had were Wessex, Sussex, Surrey, and the two girls who would come after him.

Middlesex appeared next, another sensible girl with the name Aemma. She insisted on dressing her older brothers' wounds when she was old enough, claiming they were incapable of doing a good job themselves. She helped Theodhild with the cooking while the men cleaned the house. She also looked after Coenred, going with him wherever he went to do the talking for him, since he could not bring himself to speak before anyone else.

Hertfordshire was the last. Their mother, Adelais, named her Beornwyn, and she was special. She was a wild, fleet-footed girl who ran barefoot through the meadows and danced in the forests. Eorl had claimed that she seemed to have the blood of the Ælfar coursing strong within her.

Artúr loved them all dearly. They were the family he had always wanted, and they loved him in return. But he was also jealous.

Jealous because they were full-blooded Saxons and he was not. They all had their father and mother's blond hair and blue eyes, whereas Artúr was cursed with green eyes and thick, dark eyebrows. He had long ago rejected his Celtic blood, and with it the features that made him different from his family. He wanted so much to be like them. So much.

So, he grew his bangs long to hide those undesirable features and hid the few Celtic tattoos he had, and pretended, when any Celt spoke to him, that he did not understand a word.

He had been a youngest child, and had hated it. Now he was a middle child, and loved every moment, promising himself that he would never be called the youngest again. The middle was a far more cozy place to be.

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**-My Head-canon: we all know how Arthur doesn't get on with Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and Cornwall. I see that as having started years ago, when they were all young. So, because they can't stand each other, Arthur didn't want to be anything like them. He wanted to be different and stronger, so he attached himself instead to his Saxon family. Years later, as he grows up and matures, he changes and realizes that he was wrong to reject his Celtic blood. It was an important part of who he was, and still is an important part of him. He realizes that he is a nation made of bits and pieces, a melting pot of all different cultures and identities, if you will, though not quite on the same level as America (if only because he's a smaller country than America is), and he is proud of that.**

**-My other head-canon is that England is like Germany in that he was once one nation, but he died and was reborn into another. Just like I think Germany was once the Holy Roman Empire, England was once Wessex. He grew up and became an adult nation as Wessex, leading a full life before the Norman invasion. My head-canon in regards to all of that will be shared soon.**

**-As to the order of siblings: The Kingdom of Sussex was, according to my research, the first to be established, with Wessex following after, and then Essex. There is mention of the Middle Saxons (Middlesex) but it is unclear whether there was a kingdom or not, and I couldn't find dates. Hertfordshire and Surrey I have seen referred to separately from the others, and also joined with Essex (along with Middlesex), because they were pulled into his kingdom. So, I decided to make them three separate personifications.  
><strong>

**-Once again, names come from the Academy of Saint Gabriel's Anglo-Saxon pages.  
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**-Sorry this one was short and weird, but I wanted to introduce further characters that would become critical to the story as it progresses.**


	3. Arc III: The Morning When It's Clear

_HoshiUta: Thank you so much for your words and for being my first reviewer! You are more than welcome to use my head-canons. And, as my first reviewer, you get one of the writer's choice prompts. Please let me know what you'd like it to be and I'll get started on it : )  
><em>

_The title now is from "No Light, No Light" again. It's one of my favorite songs : )_

**Arc III: Ends – The Morning When It's Clear**

The fire was starting to die out. It occurred to Arthur that he should probably add a couple logs to it, keep it going...but there was just no way he was going to get up, not with _him_ in the room.

What _had_ his Parliament been thinking? They _knew_ he didn't like _him_. They _knew_ it. And still they insisted on this bloody arrangement. They'd primped and polished and dressed him up as nice as possible, all silks and satins and high-quality leather boots. They'd demanded that he smile as much as possible, drink only small amounts of wine, and dance with everyone, but mostly with _him_.

_He_ was sitting in a plush armchair at the foot of the bed, watching him quietly, a glass filled almost to the brim with alcohol balanced precariously in his hand. He, too, was dressed up: the full kilt get up and, in England's eyes, he looked ridiculous (not really though, no...England would never admit it, but that kilt was...attractive). Arthur'd never bothered to learn what the individual pieces of the kilt get up were, and he really didn't care. What he did care about was that he was lying on a very large, very comfortable bed, with thick blankets and silk sheets, in the most uncomfortable clothes ever, with a bottle of Port clutched in his hand. If he had to go through with this, he wanted to be drunk off his arse when he did.

_He _sighed heavily, setting the glass down on the small stand next to the armchair. Arthur could hear the creaking of the chair as _he _stood up and walked toward the bed. He glanced down and saw the other nation, outlined by the failing light. The pale green eyes were the only visible feature on _his_ rugged face. The bed dipped slightly as _he_ leaned down, pressing a hand on to the mattress. Arthur was half-tempted to kick the other in the face, but instead took a swig of Port. Causing _him _physical harm would earn England a lecture from his Parliament and a disappointed look from Anne. He liked Anne, so there was no need to make her unhappy. Besides, if he managed to get drunk tonight (and he definitely intended to), then he'd be hung-over in the morning, and that made the prospect of a lecture on not kicking other nations in the face that much more unbearable. The bed dipped more and now _he _was completely on it, on all fours, and moving toward England. Arthur stared off to the side, reading the label in the dim light. Portugal had been trying to teach him his language, while they had been lying in bed together, enjoying the after glow. Arthur hadn't been doing too well. Perhaps he'd been distracted by other things...like Portugal's face, his smile, those eyes. Arthur went to take another long drink from the bottle, only to have it knocked out of his hand. He swore loudly and colorfully in response, sitting up with the intention of retrieving the bottle and trying to salvage the expensive rug.

"'M sorry," came the mumbled response beside his ear, a firm hand pushing him back down. "Deal wi' it later." And a kiss was pressed against his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his neck. There were more kisses, and wandering hands, before the other nation finally pulled back, sitting upright and frowning at him. "Swatch haur, Ah dornt want thes union onie mair than ye dae but there's nae need tae be a dobber abit it!" Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Oh, of course you don't! That's why you're on top of me, after all: to prove how much you _don't_ want it, eh, James?" James turned away, the last embers highlighting the blush on his face.

"Ah jist want tae make th' best ay things," he said. "But if that's hoo ye feel abit it, 'en that's jist braw." Arthur stared up at him. He supposed the big Scot was handsome, in a rugged, rough kind of way. Not really his type, though he couldn't deny that he'd felt some level of attraction to him over the years. But that all had been buried beneath layers and layers of dislike.

"I'm not like France," he blurted without thinking. Why on earth did he say that? Scotland pulled back further, a puzzled look on his face.

"What's 'at supposed tae pure techt? Ah ken yoo're nae heem."

"What I mean is, I'm not going to just lie here quietly for you...I won't be your woman."

"Whoever said Ah wanted a hen? An' if ye hink Francis is whieest, yoo're a lot dumber than Ah thooght."

"Really? I always thought Francis would be the demure type," Arthur said, shrugging (which was a bit awkward, considering he was on his back). "And I'm not dumb."

"Ay coorse, ay coorse. Noo, if ye dornt min', ah'd raither nae gab abit Francis," Scotland said, sighing irritably. "'N' ah dinnae think yi'll waant tae blether aboot him either."

"That's true," the Englishman replied. He looked back up at the redhead. The fire was completely gone now, and he had to wait a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he could just make out James' features. He really was quite handsome, and they were technically married now. Maybe he could give this a go? He reached up to drape his arms around Scotland's neck, offering him a small smile. "Anyway...you said you wanted to make the best of this, so why don't we?" James smiled back a bit, and leaned down again.

And then everything was else was forgotten in swirl of fabrics and skin and heady feelings. They could go back to hating each other later. For now, they were just James and Arthur, two people making the most of an unwanted marriage and a strange attraction.

In the morning, Arthur woke feeling...different. Not bad, just different. Heavier, actually. Like there was more of him, even though there wasn't. He glanced down at James, who was still asleep beside him. He turned to the mirror on the dresser just a few feet away, wondering if he perhaps looked any different...

Still the same face: wild, wheat-colored hair, dark green eyes, scowling mouth. But, brighter, almost. He looked a little younger, a little stronger...and he finally understood.

His time as simply England, the only kingdom left in the south of Britain, had ended. He was tied to Scotland now, creating a _new _kingdom. A Kingdom of Britain.

1707: time for a second start. He couldn't wait.

**Notes:**

**-1707 were the Acts of Union, which bound Scotland and England together into the Kingdom of Britain. **

**-I decided not to have Scotland and England throwing things and fighting each other just yet, because I like to imagine that _sometimes_ we can all get along.**

**-Head-canon time: I don't see any nations as actually being "blood relatives." They may call each other "brother" or "sister" because they share borders, but they aren't, because they all have their own cultures and people. They could be cousins, because there's been such cultural mixing. And I've already established that the British Isles, in my head, come from different parents, and England's bloodlines are now so screwed up, it'd be hard to say he's related to them at all.**

**-To any Scots out there or people who really know the Scottish accent in the wide world of Fanfiction: I apologize if my attempt at the Scottish accent was really bad. I used two different "Scottish Translators" to give it a go. If you have any criticism or advice to give, I'd be very glad if you could let me know.**

**-As for the translations themselves (in order from the beginning):**

**"Swatch haur, Ah dornt want thes union onie mair than ye dae but there's nae need tae be a dobber abit it!"** **- "Look here, I don't want this union any more than you do but there's no need to be a bastard about it!"**

**~ "Ah jist want tae make th' best ay things...But if that's hoo ye feel abit it, 'en that's jist braw." - "I just wanted to make the best of things...But if that's how you feel about it, then that's just fine."**

**~ "What's 'at supposed tae pure techt? Ah ken yoo're nae heem." - "What's that supposed to mean? I know you're not him."**

**~ "Whoever said Ah wanted a hen? An' if ye hink Francis is whieest, yoo're a lot dumber than Ah thooght." - "Whoever said I wanted a woman? And if you think Francis is quiet, you're a lot dumber than I thought."**

**~ "Ay coorse, ay coorse. Noo, if ye dornt min', ah'd raither nae gab abit Francis...'N' Ah dinnae think yi'll waant tae blether aboot him either." - "Of course, of course. Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about Francis...And I don't think you want to talk about him either."**

**-This one was short, too, but they'll probably get longer as I progress. I wanted to trying jumping ahead to a new part of the story...and I hope you all liked it.**


	4. Arc IV: One More Day That I'm With You

_HoshiUta: Thank you again! ScotlandxEngland is definitely one of my favorite pairings, and I love writing them. It's definitely a head-canon of mine that the union was a marriage, and I had to write something with it : ) You may hold on to your prize as long as you want, though you certainly would not be getting in the way by making the request now. And I'm so glad someone agrees with me: when you really look at all the different peoples who formed England, there's just no way he could ever be completely related to the other Celts._

_The title comes from "The World I Knew" by Jordin Sparks_

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><p><strong>Arc IV: Insides – One More Day That I'm With You<strong>

_1338_

Sometimes, England felt like he was losing himself amongst all of the chaos that came with being a nation. All of the wars, the arguments, the betrayals, the hatred. There seemed to be no end in sight to all of the horror. He would come home drenched in blood that was not his, or hunched over from barrages of insults and arguments with whatever King decided it was time to put his foot down with his nation. Most days, he would come home falling-down drunk to forget all the problems.

Then he met her. He was sitting in a small, run-down inn at a roadside, the Smith's Arms or some strange name like that. He'd been working his way through his ninth (or was it the tenth? Actually, it was probably the fourteenth or fifteenth – he was trying to be convince himself that he wasn't drinking as much as he actually was) tankard of ale when she came over and pulled it from his fingers. She had a hand planted on her hip, regarding him coolly.

"Don't 'is lordship think 'e's 'ad enough?" She had asked. England had stared up at her, with her frizzy blond hair and warm, brown eyes. She was a strapping girl, not particularly pretty, and with crooked teeth.

"No, no I don't," He'd told her, reaching for the tankard. She held it out his grasp, shaking her head.

"Oh, but I think 'e 'as, and 'e won't be gettin' no more tonight," she told him. "'E'll be gettin' a bed so 'e don't kill 'imself tryin' to get 'ome. And 'e'll be grateful for it." And she pulled him up by his sleeve, setting the tankard down (still out of his reach), and pulled him along the hallways, ignoring the rather rude sounds coming from a rather rowdy table in the center of the room.

She kicked open a door and threw him down on the bed, instructing him to get some rest and then shutting the door behind her.

* * *

><p>When England woke up the next morning, it was to a pounding headache and the girl from last night arriving with a tray of food and a glass of water. He felt nauseous immediately upon seeing the tray, and she set it down and grabbed the wash-basin, shoving it in his face. He threw up multiple times, with her stroking his hair and humming a soft tune to calm him.<p>

"Come now, milord, you'll be alright," she was whispering. He glanced up at her, waiting for his stomach to cease roiling before he attempted to speak.

"Why are you being so kind to me?"

"Why? Well, we don't often get such 'andsome men comin' to our little inn," she said, smiling at him. "Certainly not knights like yourself, milord."

"You think _I'm _handsome?"

"Well, not when you're bent o'er the basin like that," she shrugged, but slid her fingers through his hair again. "But, yes. And, you looked so forlorn and tired. What kind of woman would I be if I didn't try to 'elp you?" He blushed, feeling incredibly unattractive clutching the bloody basin and lying in a bed he hadn't paid for. Speaking of which...

"I have money with me for the bed and the drinks," he said. She raised an eyebrow, and shook her head at him.

"You'll pay for th' drinks, only 'cause you drank so much o' our stock," she said, "but you won't be givin' me nothin' for th' bed. Now, clean yourself up and eat some of the food I went to the trouble o' bringin' up 'ere, alright?" She winked at him and left the room, with Arthur still sitting in the bed, clutching that disgusting basin.

* * *

><p>He became a regular to the inn, whenever he needed a break from being a nation, from being England. He found out that the girl who'd helped him was named Lucy, and she was the innkeeper's daughter. Whenever he arrived, she'd offer him a big smile, a drink, and a wash-basin. The wash-basin had become a bit of a private joke; what made it even funnier (to the two of them) was that she offered him the very wash-basin he used the first time they'd met. He'd laugh and sit down and, as soon as she was able, she'd join him and they'd spend the evening talking and laughing. She told him about business, and about the handsome builder who had come into the small town to help the smith next door repair his shop. Inside of a week, Arthur had learned everything about the builder: his name was Hugh, and he was <em>so very strong<em>, and _so very handsome_, and _my goodness but his smile shone as bright as the sun!_ He would laugh good-naturedly as Lucy continued to gush about the builder, before she'd finally realize what she was saying and would stop, scowling at him.

He came to adore Lucy. She was very much like Theodhild, the sister he'd lost all those years ago: she was calm, understanding, helpful, and she forced meals on him. When he'd asked her why, she'd simply smiled at him and told him that he always came to her looking tired, and, since he lived by himself and that apparently made her sad to think about (she lived with her father and three younger sisters), she wanted to do this for him. In return, he gave her advice for how to approach Hugh, and helped her clean up the common room of the inn at night.

* * *

><p>One night, after having spent several weeks in London, he went to the inn to find that it was closed, much earlier than normal. Lucy apparently saw him approach and she opened the door, eyes red and puffy and beckoned him inside. They sat together with glasses of wine and she told him what had made her cry: her father was ill, and her youngest sister had run off with some boy and they had no idea where she was. By the end of the story, Lucy had burst into tears, and Arthur spent the entire night trying to comfort her.<p>

The next day he set out, promising to find the girl, Amis.

* * *

><p>It was two weeks before he tracked her down, and brought her back to her family. He'd found her hiding in an alley, filthy and hungry and frightened. The boy poor Amis had run off with had left her alone, once he found out she had no money. Arthur was relieved that he was a nation, otherwise he would never have found her. She came with him willingly and, when they got back to the inn, Lucy came running out, leaving her other sisters, Joanna and Cristina, sobbing in the doorway and their father leaning out of the window, calling to Amis. Lucy threw her arms around the younger girl, sobbing and dropping kisses on top of her head. When she saw Arthur standing there, looking rather uncomfortable, she pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheeks, thanking him over and over. He smiled at her and hugged her back, telling her that it was the least he do for her, considering all she'd done for him.<p>

That evening, she asked him how he'd found Amis. And he couldn't think of anything to tell her. So he told her the truth. At first, Lucy had scoffed; but then he'd taken her hands and held her gaze, and he could tell that she saw. He waited for the inevitable explosion of questions and the curtsies and all the fanfare that usually came along with such an announcement. But it didn't happen. She just smiled at him and squeezed his hands.

"That's a good thing then," she said, "'else I'd ne'er 'ave found Amis." And she never mentioned it again.

* * *

><p>That was why he continued to go to her inn, every time he needed to get away. Lucy did not look at him and see a nation, a knight, a lord, or whatever mantle he was forced to bear.<p>

Inside her inn, he was just Arthur, and she was just Lucy. Inside her inn, they were just friends and just talking. Inside her inn, he didn't have to think about fighting and arguing with nations, he could relax and tell stories to her children and talk to Hugh and confide in Lucy.

Inside Lucy's inn, the Smith's Arms, he was human.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**-Lucy is an OC of mine who will show up in probably one other story. That's why the year is so important: the next story involving her will take place ten years later. Guess what that story is going to be about and you'll get cookies!**

**-Despite the title, there was never going to be anything romantic going on between Arthur and Lucy. She's just a nice girl who Arthur could talk to and who treated him like a beloved sibling. It's yet another head-canon of mine that Arthur, and a lot of nations, have times where they desperately want to be human, and so they hang around humans in an attempt to gain some of that humanity. Lucy offers Arthur the opportunity to stop being England for a little while, and he is forever grateful to her for it.**

**-As for her name: you've probably guessed that I like to be as historically accurate as possible with at least the names. Why? Because I love names. I love the history and etymology of them, and I love researching and finding more names. So, I checked to see what names were used in this time period in England, and "Lucy" shows up as early as 1277, so "Lucy" it was.**

**-Thank you for reading : )**


	5. Arc V: You Can Stand Under My Umbrella

_I just want to take a moment to thank HoshiUta and Star Anise for adding this fic to their favorites. It really means a lot to me to know that people out there really like this story. It's my first Hetalia fic, and I was really nervous about it, so I'm glad that people enjoy it!_

_Now, on with the show!_

_The title for this chapter comes from Rihanna's "Umbrella." I love that song!_

* * *

><p><strong>Arc V: Outsides – You Can Stand Under My Umbrella<strong>

When Arthur woke up, he was outside, and it was dark. Raining too, and heavily. He was freezing, lying amidst a pile of rubble in the center of London. He was shivering violently, and knew he needed to get inside soon if he didn't want to get sick. But when he tried to sit up, a wave of agonizing pain and nausea struck him, knocking him flat on his back once more. His whole body hurt. Arthur closed his eyes against the rain and tried to take mental stock of his wounds. A few broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. His right foot was crushed. A concussion. And his heart. Oh, his heart. It felt like someone had torn it from his chest, ripped it apart, set it on fire, then stuffed it back in him. He wanted to throw up, but the heaving motions that would go along with that would be agony on his ribs, so he stayed put. What was he doing out here anyway? He should be back home, or at the Houses of Parliament, in one of the bunkers. Then he remembered.

* * *

><p><em>The air-raid sirens were wailing through out the city, high-pitched and just loud enough to cover a wave of panicked screaming and the sounds of hundreds of running feet pounding the pavement, racing for safety. Arthur was out there, frozen in pain. His heart felt like it was being crushed within his chest.<em>

_ "Sir! Sir, please!" A voice snapped him out of his daze. He blinked, focusing on a terrified woman clutching a baby in her arms, two small children clinging to her dress. "Please, please! Where do we go?" He looked down at himself, wondering why she was asking him. Oh right, he was still in uniform. He looked back at her, taking in the frightened expression on her face and the faces of her children. He had to help them._

_ "Follow me," he commanded, ignoring the screaming pain in his heart and picking up one of the children while she grabbed his hand and instructed the other child to hold the baby so she could hold his hand, and then they were running. _

_ As they went along, Arthur became aware that they were being followed by other frightened Londoners looking for a shelter in the midst of the bombing. They must have seen his uniform. _

_ He found the nearest tube station and stood by the entrance, waving everyone in. Only when the last person was down the stairs did he head out to the street to signal to others. And that was when he heard the sound of a bomb careening through the sky. Then...nothing._

* * *

><p>That's right, he'd been hit by the remains of the building the bomb had blown up. He'd been out here for a while, obviously, and partially hidden by all the rubble. He braced himself for the pain and nausea and forced himself upright. It took a while for his head to stop spinning, but when it did, he looked around, trying to take stock of the situation. His people were all over the place, cleaning up the mess as best they could, and helping to search for survivors. It warmed his heart to see them. He realized, then, that he needed to get someone's attention. He needed help, needed to let someone know where he was. If nothing else, his government would at least want to know that he was alright. He opened his mouth to call to the nearest person, but...nothing came out. He tried again, and this time was rewarded with an embarrassing squeak. His good hand flew to his throat. It was burning. He must have inhaled a lot of smoke.<p>

Well, bugger. It looked like he wouldn't be calling anyone any time soon. He tried waving his good arm. Nothing. He tried picking up a rock to throw at someone to grab their attention, but the fingers on his "good" hand protested loudly at his attempt to force them from their current position. He looked down at them: they were all bent the wrong way. Broken. Great. What was Arthur supposed to do now? He had no way of getting anyone's attention. He would just have to lie there, cold, wet, and in complete agony, until someone stumbled across him. He was getting ready to do just that when he heard it.

"Lloegr?" It was Wales. Arthur turned his head to see the nation, out in the pouring rain, searching for him, a large umbrella clutched in one hand. "Lloegr, where are you? Are you out here?" England raised his "good" arm and waved it, squeaking as loud as could. Somehow, over the sound of the rain and the other people out trying to clear the rubble and find those trapped beneath the debris, Wales heard him, for he turned and his eyes focused immediately on England. He actually ran over, jumping over the debris and nearly tripping several times in his haste. The older nation threw himself down beside England, staring at him shock.

"Oh, Lloegr, look at you," he said softly. England squeaked again (he'd meant to say _is it really that bad?_ But, well...burnt throat), and Wales shook his head. "You fool, do you know how worried I was? And Scotland...he's worried sick over you!" Arthur tried to offer him a sheepish smile, but his face hurt terribly, and so the muscles required for such an act were in no mood to cooperate. Wales flinched at his attempt, and reached a shaking hand forward to card through his wet hair. Some of it was stuck together, and when Wales pulled his hand away, there was blood on his fingers. Oh. That was bad. Wales wiped his hand off on his uniform pants and set his umbrella down. "Look, Lloegr, all the stretchers have been filled up, so I'm going to have to carry you to the hospital, okay?" England wasn't really focusing on what Wales was saying. All he could focus on was that Wales had blanched when he'd seen the blond, and he looked horrified and scared and worried and tired. And England felt guilty. He reached up with his "good" hand and touched Wales' face.

"...Davy," he managed to get out after some effort. "...Sorry..." And that was all he could force himself to say, and it left his throat raging at him. But the look on Davy's face was worth it. The Welshman froze for a moment, before giving him a tiny smile and leaning down to kiss his forehead and, after a moment's hesitation, his lips.

"It's alright, Arthur," he said, "I'm just glad you're alive. I don't what I'd do if you weren't." He then proceeded to pick Arthur up as gently as he could and put him on his back before grabbing the umbrella and somehow managing to balance it on his shoulder.

"Comfy?" Davy asked after all this. In all honesty, no, Arthur was in tremendous pain. His whole body was protesting this treatment. But he wasn't going to tell Davy that, so he just nodded, and the Welshman set off, the umbrella sheltering them both from the rain.

* * *

><p>The hospital was full, and it probably wouldn't have been wise to have a nation stay there anyway, so they ended up only staying long enough to get Arthur bandaged up and to make sure the injuries weren't too bad. The doctors told them Arthur was lucky, that it could have been much worse than it was. Arthur wanted to scoff, because it was pretty damn bad right now, but his ribs and throat hurt too much. Afterwards, Davy carried him home under the umbrella.<p>

When they arrived, Scotland was on them in an instant, hovering around them, alternating between swearing and demanding to know if Arthur really was alright and _what was he THINKING being outside during an air-raid? Did he WANT to give Scotland a heart-attack? _Wales told him to calm down, he wasn't helping anyone by shrieking. England was going to be find, he told James, he just needed to rest. So did James. So did they all, Cornwall added from the door to the kitchen, dark circles under his eyes. They all knew, with the exception of Arthur, that he'd been spending nights at England's bedside, watching over him. Cornwall had been born with the gift of premonition, and he had foreseen England's death in a horrific nightmare that had kept him awake for days after war had been declared against Germany. Wales had tried to comfort him, to tell him that it was just one of many possible futures and that it might not even come true, but to no avail. After all, they all knew that when Grifiud dreamt something, it usually came true.

Davy tried not to think about that as he calmed James down and carried Arthur upstairs and to bed. The blond was half-asleep as they went, but, unfortunately, woke up as soon as his back hit the mattress. He stared up at Davy, exhausted and in pain. Wales offered him a small smile and ran a hand through his hair. He kissed him again, as sweetly and as long as he dared: Scotland, as impossible as he was, loved England in his own way, and could be incredibly possessive when he wanted to be.

"Davy..." England whispered, voice hoarse and strained and...scared. He reached up to touch Davy's hair, and the Welshman reached up to press their hands together.

"It's alright, boyo," he said gently. "Everything will get better, I promise. We'll all make it out of this together and we'll go on a lovely picnic, you and I, I promise." Arthur offered him a screwed up smile of his own. His face was badly bruised and swollen, so that the smile itself was twisted. But it was still a smile, and Arthur rarely smiled. Just then, a loud clap of thunder made England jump, a scream trying to tear itself from his throat. Wales threw his arms around the younger nation, holding him while he shook.

"You're alright," he whispered, shushing him. "You're alright." Arthur buried his face in Davy's chest, waiting for the thunder to stop. He felt strong hands pushing him down on to the bed, and Wales settled down beside him, pulling him close so that he was partially covering the Englishman, protecting him.

And Arthur felt like they were outside again, with Davy carrying him home, the umbrella shielding them from the rain. Davy was shielding him again, just like he always had, just like he probably always would. Arthur wondered how he would ever repay him.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**-The Blitz: September 7, 1940 to May 10, 1941. London was bombed by the Luftwaffe for 76 consecutive nights, and other towns/cities were bombed as well. The people of London hid in tube stations during the air-raids for protection.**

**-Cornwall's Gift: As we all know, England practices magic. This is well established. I extended it to the rest of British Isles, as we all do, and thus Cornwall's gift of premonition was born. A premonition is a forewarning, a sign of bad things to come, so poor Cornwall finds himself stuck with the horrible visions of death and destruction and other things. I'll go more in-depth with this later.  
><strong>

**-Scotland is right, England definitely shouldn't have been out there during the bombing. In my head-canon, the bombing, for England, is the equivalent of having his heart...well. Basically it's a whole new world of pain for him and any other nation that's ever been bombed that heavily.**

**-I have a soft spot for EnglandxWales. Can you tell?**


	6. Arc VI: Welcome Home

_HoshiUta: *Gives cookies* You got it! As for what happens to Lucy, you'll find out in the next chapter. And thank you again, I'm glad you like her! Don't apologize for not reviewing that chapter! I'm just glad that you reviewed at all! _

_The title for this chapter comes from "Velkommen Hjem" by Sissel Kyrkjebø, and is simply the title itself, just translated._

* * *

><p><strong>Arc VI: Hours – Welcome Home<strong>

Twenty-two hours. Twenty-two hours of labor. And Artur had been awake during all of it, pacing outside the room and trying not to worry. But the births of their other children had never taken this long. Thrydwulf had tried to usher him off to bed, but Artur couldn't sleep, not while his wife was struggling to deliver their baby. She was so beautiful, so strong, but childbirth had claimed the lives of many women, and there was a niggling voice in the back of Wessex's mind which kept insisting that she would share their fate, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Æthelstan was watching him pace from his seat on a plush chair in Artur's chambers, which he now shared with his wife and their children.

"You really should sit down," the King told him gently. "You do no good by pacing like that." Arthur threw him a dirty glare and continued pacing. Æthelstan shook his head, running a hand through brown curls. His crown was absent, as were the fancy and expensive robes he had worn yesterday. Now he was dressed more simply, for, as he had explained to Arthur yesterday, since he intended to stay until the birth of the child, there was just no bloody way he was going to do it in stiff, uncomfortable clothes.

"Listen to me," he continued. "Mercia will survive this." And Arthur stopped, turning to face him.

"How do you know?" He asked quietly, desperately. He needed reassurance, needed to know that his Mercia, his beloved, beloved Mercia, would be returned to him after this ordeal was over.

"Because," Æthelstan said calmly, "she is a kingdom, and she is strong. Do not forget, my Wessex, that she was the strongest of all of you not so long ago. If she was strong enough to conquer Kent, Sussex, and Essex, strong enough to be the great power in England, strong enough to aid in the building of Offa's Dike, and strong enough to bear you other children, then I should think her more than capable of giving birth to this one." Wessex took a deep breath and nodded. He wanted to believe his King, but...

"Milords," a small voice said. They all turned to see Eadburg, the mousy midwife's assistant, offering them a nervous smile. "The babe's come at last."

"And...and Lady Mercia? Is she alright?" Artur asked, trying very hard not to run into the room.

"Yes, milord," Eadburg said with a smile, "the Lady is well. Tired, but well." And that was all Wessex needed to hear. He pushed past the woman, nearly knocking her off her feet in his haste to get into the room. Æthelstan followed, shaking his head and offering an apologetic look to Eadburg, who looked positively miffed at having been nearly bowled over. She followed the King into the room, shaking her own head at the foolishness of Lord Wessex. This was hardly his first child, after all.

Artur passed through the short corridor leading to the room, very quietly opened the door and stepped soundlessly inside. Mercia was on the bed, her bright red hair sticking to her forehead in sweaty clumps and her chest still heaving from the exertion. She was fast asleep, and, as much as Artur wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her, he didn't dare wake her, not after all that. He turned to the crib in the corner of the room. He'd built it himself for their first child, and it was a good, sturdy piece that looked almost like it did the first day he'd made it. The morning sunlight was shining on it, and Arthur could just make out the teeth-marks Wilfrid, their eldest, had left when he was teething. Arthur remembered when they'd tried to take him out so that Godric could sleep in it. Godric had been born in the same year as Wilfrid had, albeit near to the end. But Wilfrid had grown fast, as the children of nations often do, and he'd been a healthy one-year-old, and Godric had been a such a tiny thing. However, when they tried to take Wilfrid out of the crib, he vehemently disagreed with their decision and expressed his view by screaming and crying as loud as he could. In the end, they'd let the two of them stay together. Once they were old enough, the crib had gone to little Eadflaed, who was her mother's mirror, and now that she was two and had her own bed, the crib housed the newest addition to their large family.

Artur moved quietly and slowly over, wondering what the little thing looked like. It had to be a nation, of that he was sure. Æthelstan had just been crowned King of all England, and it was at the party celebrating this that Mercia had gone into labor. Nine months ago, Æthelstan's power and influence had been steadily increasing, and it was during that time that Wessex and Mercia had conceived the child now laying in the crib. He wondered if she'd look like him, or like Mercia. Wilfrid and Eadflaed were their mother's children: they had her red hair and blue eyes. Godric looked like Artur's own father: he had thick black curls and green eyes. He actually looked a lot like Dafydd, but neither Wessex nor Mercia had any intention of telling the Celt that. None of the Celtic nations knew that Artur had any children, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to know. They didn't get on, and his children weren't old enough to look out for themselves yet, and this baby, if it was who he thought it was, was far too precious to risk.

He looked into the crib and gasped. _She _was beautiful. A beautiful baby girl with dark tufts of hair, fast asleep just like her mother. He slowly reached into the crib, running a calloused finger through her downy hair. The baby shifted and blinked up at him, eyes as green as his. She smiled at him, making a soft gurgling sound that got him to smile back.

"Lovely, isn't she, husband mine?" Mercia asked, awake and sitting up in bed. Artur turned and offered her a bright smile.

"Yes, Rowena, my beloved wife, she's stunning," he told her, and looked down at the baby once more.

"We must name her," Rowena said, limping over to him. He shook his head at her, as they both knew she shouldn't be walking, not this soon after childbirth. Rowena ignored her husband and stood beside him, gazing down at the child. She reached into the crib and lifted the newborn out of it, cradling her to her chest before offering her to Artur, who took her gingerly and held her as though he feared she'd break. Mercia laughed and adjusted his grip so the little one was cradled in her husband's strong arms. "Do you have any ideas for names?"

"I don't know..."

"Come now, you must have something."

"Well..."

"I named Wilfrid and Eadflaed. Now it's your turn: give her a name."

"What about...Sunngifu?" And Rowena beamed at her husband. Sunngifu. _Sun's Gift_.

"That is a perfect name, husband."

Artur smiled at her and ran a gentle finger through Sunngifu's hair. Then he felt it. He turned wide green eyes to his wife. She smiled at him and gently caressed her baby's cheek.

"You felt it too?"

"She's...she's a nation."

"She's not just any nation, she's England. Or, at least, she will be...when she is old enough and strong enough." Artur nodded at her words, and looked down at the tiny nation in his arms. To think he would be the one fortunate enough to father England! He knew, of course, that her birth signaled his impending death. He even looked older.

He looked up at Mercia. She looked older too. They both had some gray strands in their hair and a wrinkle or two on their faces. Nothing dramatic, not yet, but Artur knew it was only a matter of time. He and his beloved wife would die, turning over the land and the world and all the heavens to their daughter to live her dreams. Her brothers and sister would be there with her along the way, immortal as they were.

Rowena smiled at him, tilting his chin up with two fingers. He was taller than her, but she sometimes made it seem as though they were equal in height. "Think of it like this, Wessex," she said, reading his mind like always, "when we die, we will die together, just we were meant to, yes?"

Arthur looked down at the tiny child again, the newly formed Kingdom of England. With such a magnificent mother, Sunngifu was sure to be strong and independent, capable of caring for herself even after her parents were gone. He just hoped that one day she found a love like his and Mercia's.

"Yes, yes we will."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**-Kingdom of Mercia: Angle kingdom established in 527. Under the reign of King Penda, Mercia became the most powerful kingdom in Anglo-Saxon England, and dominated the Heptarchy (the arrangement of other kingdoms in the land, with the four main ones being Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria, and East Anglia) in what became known as the Mercian Supremacy. The Supremacy ended in 825.**

**-Offa's Dike was an enormous wall built to keep the Welsh out of Mercian territory. It is named for King Offa of Mercia.  
><strong>

**-Æthelstan: Æthelstan the Glorious (take that, Alfred, Frederick, Catherine, and Peter – you guys were only called "the great") was the King of Wessex who became the first King of a unified England in 927.**

**-As I mentioned before, it is my head-canon that England is like Germany: he lived as one nation, died, and was reborn. In England's case, head-canon dictates he was once the Kingdom of Wessex, and that he was in love with and married Mercia. Why? Because I'm a sucker for romance and Æthelstan didn't take control of Mercia violently. Also, England, in my head-canon, has a thing for powerful ladies (see: Elizabeth I) and so couldn't help but be attracted to her.**

**-Also, another head-canon dictates that nations who are meant to merge to form one nation are, literally, soul-mates. They are meant to be together, and that's how they form a new nation (though there have been exceptions to this rule). Thus, Wessex and Mercia feel a draw to each other, because they are each other's other half and together make England. **

**-Going back to my previous head-canon: England lived a complete life as Wessex, and, in my head-canon, died (for causes I will tell you about later) at about 50, then was reborn as England. But what happens to Sunngifu? You'll have to wait and find out.**

**-A note on names: Rowena is indeed a Saxon name, and does not necessarily have the most flattering roots. I use it here as a nod to Sir Walter Scott and Ivanhoe, not to the old myths and legends. I can't give the whole story, but it's an "ooh, Saxons are evil" story in which Rowena, daughter of Hengest, seduces King Vortigern into acquiescing to her requests (this comes from the Wikipedia article on the name "Rowena", I admit – I shall do better research on this and other topics, or I'll try). She apparently becomes an archetype for female villains. My Rowena can be a tough lass, but she's a nation, so that's expected. But, I also like to think that, since it's Wales telling the story of Vortigern and Rowena, basically (he tells tons of great stories about the Celts who lived in England before it was called "England", because they were so closely related to his people and fled to his land when the Saxons invaded), he paints her as the "awful witch who stole Lloegr from us." England, of course, disagrees, and they had a really nasty argument about it at one point. **

**-The other name, Sunngifu, is not from the Academy of Saint Gabriel, but it's the name I've been using since day one for her, so I'm taking a historical liberty with it and continuing to use it. Her birthday, if you're curious, would be July 12, 927 (again, abuse of Wikipedia - there's actually some pretty good stuff on there, and they're doing their best to make it as accurate as possible – it's fast, it's easy, and I've been having a hard time trying to find proper books on the Anglo-Saxons...I found one, but it was about the aftermath of Hastings, which isn't what I want...not yet, anyway). Isn't it funny how many birthdays seem to fall into July?**


	7. Arc IV, Part II: What the Water Gave Me

_HoshiUta: Complex Head-Canons – What happens when one has far too much time one's hands. I'm glad you like it! I've been building a whole universe for England basically since I started watching the show and reading the comic._

_~ To answer your question: Scotland and the others were not reborn, at least, not in my head-canon. The reason why England was is very complicated, and I am going to tackle it in one of my upcoming chapters, though I don't know which one yet, and I'll be explaining it in bits and pieces along the way._

_~ I had to make an adjustment in years, since research has shown me that the Black Death arrived in England late 1348-1349 – So this story officially takes place eleven years after the events in "One More Day That I'm With You."_

_Title today is named after Florence + The Machine's "What the Water Gave Me"_

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><p><strong>Arc IV, Part II: Days – What the Water Gave Me<strong>

_London, 1349_

The house was empty. Arthur knew that it was and yet he had not left his bed in days. He did not need to. That poor young maid of his, Mary, had returned from tending to her family in Bristol. A pestilence had hit the city, she had said, and all of her family were dead. Within a few days, Mary was sick too, and a few days after that, she shared her family's fate. The other servants caught the pestilence from her, and some had tried to flee it, but to no avail: for the plague had already hit London.

Arthur was sick. He had looked in the mirror and had seen God's tokens on his face, had thrown up violently into a basin in his room, sickened further by the stench of blood. The fevers that consumed him left him sweating, shaking, and delirious, so that it was all he could do to collapse in bed and stay there. He had already lived beyond the expectancy of normal plague victims, but then, he was a nation, and he knew that he would continue to suffer the plague until it was gone from his lands.

He thought of his neighbors, wondering how they fared. Iames, fool that he was, had invaded Durham. His men caught the Mortality, and retreated back over the border, leaving five-thousand of their number dead. Wales caught the Mortality only a little while after he did. Arthur knew it was so because, only a few months ago, in late 1348, Dafydd had been writing him letters, inquiring about his health, but Arthur had been too sick to respond to any of them. Then, the letters stopped, and England knew Wales was bedridden, just as he was. Dáire was a mystery. Arthur was not really on speaking terms with Ireland, and had no idea if the other had taken ill.

He also thought of Lucy. Her inn was just outside the city, and there were more people fleeing daily. What if she was infected, or some member of her family? She had six beautiful children: John, Hugh, Golde, Maude, William, and Ida. John was just ten, and Ida was barely two. Lucy herself was in her thirties and had been all roses when he'd last seen her. Hugh was well and getting a lot of work. But what about now?

As soon as he was well, he would go and see her. But...the plague had taken only days to spread, and something told him it would last for much longer.

* * *

><p><em>1350<em>

Arthur was still coughing violently, but he was able to walk and the illness was passing. That, in and of itself, was enough to get him out of bed and stumbling off to Lucy's inn.

It was about a two-mile journey that took him most of the day to make, if only because he was so tired. (In the years to come, he would learn that the Great Mortality traveled two-and-a-half miles each day, and the thought would sicken him.) When he finally made it, he was shocked to find that there was no inn to visit.

There was a pile of ash.

There was almost no one left in the tiny village, and no one particularly eager to speak to him. Eventually, an elderly woman sat down with him in exchange for a gold coin to tell him the story.

She told him slowly, her voice quaking, of how the village had been hit by the Great Mortality, and almost immediately, ten people were lost in the village of only one hundred. They burned down the houses of the afflicted and prayed that God would spare the rest of them. Needless to say, it was not meant to be, and the handsome builder, husband to the innkeeper, caught the pestilence next. Arthur tried to keep his face neutral at that news, but he knew how much Lucy adored her husband, and to lose Hugh like that...

The old woman continued, explaining how they lost the builder three days later, and then two of the children were sick, the eldest and youngest (_John and Ida...poor sweet things_). They perished, and William and Golde went next. The village people, terrified, put a torch to the inn...and Lucy could only watch as the place her great-grandfather had built, the place she had grown up in, was burned to the ground. She and her two remaining children became outcasts in the village, just like the other afflicted ones.

It was only a few days later, the woman told him, that one of the village-women came running back from the river, screaming in horror at what she'd seen. She'd seen a lady, a lady with frizzy blond and brown eyes and a strapping figure throw herself into the river. She'd seen Lucy, the Innkeeper of the Smith's Arms, drown herself in despair.

The two children disappeared after the death of their mother, and no one in the village knew where they'd gone. By the end, there were tears glittering in Arthur's eyes and a desperation in his heart to find Lucy's two remaining children, Hugh and Maude.

It had taken only days for Lucy to lose everything she loved. It would take years for Arthur to find what was left.

* * *

><p><em>1376<em>

Another outbreak of plague in 1373 and Arthur was in the north of his country during it. He was once again bed-ridden, and only able to get up and move about two harrowing years later. It was after the outbreak that he was able to find them. It was a few days, but he came to a small cottage and there saw Maude. She was a tall, grim-faced woman with hard eyes and a harder outlook on life. She was married to a kind farmer, Adam, and he treated her well. Arthur didn't dare approach her, not sure if she would remember him or the long friendship he'd sustained with her mother. Hugh the Younger, her brother, had been lost in the outbreak from 1361-1364, but Maude had lived on, hardening her heart in response.

But what struck Arthur the most were the two children she had. One was a boy with a mess of red curls (like his father). The other was a girl with frizzy blond hair and warm brown eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**- Okay, so I'm not as satisfied with this one as I was with the others. I might at some point come back and change a few things, but this one was a struggle to write.**

**- This is officially the end of Lucy's story. Maude will likely not show up again, because England has no idea how to approach her. Sorry it was all so tragic.**

**- On Names: They all, once again, come from the Academy of Saint Gabriel. I'm now calling Scotland "Iames" instead of "Iamys" in an attempt to show a later time. Names were written differently, pronounced differently, and used for different genders in different times, so that's what I'm trying to reflect. Same story for Artúr/Artur/Arthur.  
><strong>

**- The Black Death: A plague that ravaged Europe from 1347-1352 and wiped out a third of the population at the time (twenty-five million). It struck other places as well, like China, but I'm afraid I was focusing more on what had happened in England. At the time, the people did not call it the Black Death. In fact, that might be an error in the translation of the name. It was called, when it was happening, the Great Mortality. It seems that there were two versions of this plague about: Bubonic and Pneumonic, but then there are discrepancies on whether or not the Black Death can be characterized as bubonic plague (there are differences in symptoms and such).**

**- I only described three of the symptoms, because I can't bring myself to be that gruesome: 1) God's tokens – purple splotches that appeared on the afflicted's body. 2) Vomiting blood – yes, it happened. 3) Severe fevers that brought with them waves of delirium. I'm putting down my sources, so you can look up the rest if you want.**

**- The Black Death in Britain: the plague arrived in 1348 in the city of Bristol, because of its bustling port status and overall unsanitary conditions, and spread quickly to the rest of England. In London, the people were hit with _both _the bubonic and pneumonic plagues, and it's believed that a third to a half of the residents were lost. Wales caught it in 1348, and it reached Scotland in 1350. The invasion of Durham during the plague really did happen: the Scots thought that England was being divinely punished for its wrongdoings and thus decided to take the opportunity to launch an invasion in the North. They ended up bringing the Black Death back with them. Somewhere during this time the plague went on to Ireland, but, we apparently don't know too much about the situation over there. 30 – 45% of the general population in Britain (and Ireland?) was lost, and the Black Death recurred six times from 1360 – 1405 (sometimes spanning years) and continued on into the fifteenth century in England. In these instances, the plague was most devastating to children and young adults.**

**- Sources:**

**1) The BBC's History article, "The Black Death" written by Dr. Mike Ibeji.**

**2) HowStuffWorks' article, "How the Black Death Worked" written by Molly Edmonds.**


	8. Arc VII: South of Heaven's Chanting

_HoshiUta: Don't apologize! I mean, there ARE just times in history where you read about some event, or see a documentary on it, and you think "what the heck were you thinking?" With the Scottish invasion of Durham, all I could think was "you couldn't PAY me to go down there." As to your questions, feel free to ask as many as you want, and I will do my best to answer them!_

_~As to your question about the Vikings: yes, there certainly will be several chapters dealing with the Viking invasions – I have to do more research on them, but there'll certainly be something on Cnut (or Canute) the Great and maybe Erik Bloodaxe if I can squeeze him in (come on, how can you not write something about a guy with a name like THAT?) and a lot of other events. After all, Danelaw was a pretty big deal for the Anglo-Saxons, and I imagine him (or her, I've not yet decided – what do you think?) as being a lost sibling to Denmark, like Viking, – the three of them were the children of Dane and Scandza (name given to Scandinavia by Jordanes), who will also being making appearances._

_Today's title comes from the song of the same name from "Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides."_

* * *

><p><strong>Arc VII: Weeks – South of Heaven's Chanting<strong>

_1796_

Several weeks he'd been on this ship. Several weeks of searching for Spanish ships in the oceans and seas. Several weeks of swaying ships and creaking boards. Several weeks of hearing the men scurrying back and forth, pulling lines and clambering up the masts. Several weeks of volatile shifts between boredom, contentment, and excitement. Several weeks of a tiny, tiny bed.

Well, it might not be so tiny if he was the only one in it. But soft, slightly chapped lips pressing against the back of his neck assured him that he certainly was not. England turned as much as was safe in that miniscule bed, and met a pair of smirking brown eyes. He groaned in irritation.

"Horatio..." A pair of lips covered his, and Arthur lost himself for a moment in that kiss, forgetting entirely what his complaint was. The bed (it was really a hammock) swayed dangerously as Horatio moved on top of him, deepening the kiss and running his hands down Arthur's chest. England groaned quietly into the kiss, threading his hands into dark hair. It had been like this between them since Horatio was eighteen and had dragged Arthur to an alcove, away from the birthday celebrations and had kissed him soundly and passionately. That was twenty years ago, and Arthur loved him now as he had back then.

Horatio Nelson was a Commodore, and a hero to his people. Arthur had been with him at the battle of Cape St. Vincent, had been onboard the HMS _Captain_ when Nelson had boarded the _San Nicolas_ and then the _San Josef_. He, too, had exulted the Commodore, had cheered with the men at the end of the battle. Had shared his people's admiration and adoration of the bold officer. The hero, making his way to legend.

But...that was not all that Nelson was to him. There was a great amount of pride and bravado in Nelson's countenance. Indeed, how could there not be? But around Arthur, Commodore Nelson was simply Horatio (or Horace if Arthur decided to be teasing), the first human Arthur had loved since Elizabeth I, and that had been more than a hundred years ago. After that battle, he'd pulled Horatio away and slapped him for being a fool, before kissing him for being _his_ fool. Part of Arthur had wanted to cry from the aftershock of seeing someone so dear to him risk his life like that, and part of him wanted to cry out of awe and pride in his beloved Horatio. He did neither, focusing instead on pouring his emotions into the kiss. Nelson had smiled against his lips and wrapped his arms tightly around his country and they had stayed like that, close and relieved.

The officer pulled away from him then, drawing Arthur back into the present. Those brown eyes were concerned now as they gazed down at him, and England realized that his flashback had resulted in him simply lying there limply, with a faraway look in his own eyes.

"Are you alright, Arthur?" Nelson asked him gently, combing a hand through his hair. England merely stared back up at him, his beloved Commodore. There were only a few lines on Nelson's face, around his mouth and eyes. But that was to be expected, as the officer was thirty-eight. And yet...this was why countries were advised to stay away from relationships with humans. They grew old, withered, and died. Perhaps the only truly good piece of advice that George had ever given him was when he'd found out about Arthur's relationship with the then young Horatio Nelson.

_"It can only hurt you in the end, my country,"_ he'd said, eyes solemn. Arthur's monarchs had learned long ago not to bother with the gender of their country's mates, but they could bother with the mortality. _"You will lose him, either in battle or in sickness or simply by the drawn-out decay of time. But you will lose him. And you will be miserable." _Arthur knew deep down that he should have listened. He should have pushed Horatio away, should have told him to find someone else, someone with whom he could grow old. But he didn't. And now he was in far too deep.

Fanny had tried to pry them apart in her own gentle way. Not out of malice of any sort, for she was a kind soul, but out of the same fear that George had had, though this time it was directed at Horatio. Neither of them knew that Arthur had been listening at the door.

* * *

><p><em>"You will grow old, Horatio. You will grow old and he will not."<em>

_ "I do not care."_

_ "Yes, yes you do! How can you not care? When you are sixty, and with heaven's help I pray you make it there, he will still look and feel but twenty. When you are seventy and eighty, he will be the same."_

_ "Fanny, you must understand how little that means to me."_

_ "You will be dead one of these days, Horatio, and he will still be young though your body should lie in the ground for a hundred years. He will have to move on with his life...he won't be able to dwell on his love for you forever! You will be but a memory, though you have spent so long loving him!" Horatio recoiled at those words, looking like he'd been slapped, but Fanny was right. They all knew, as harsh as it was, that she was right. Arthur was a nation, he could not continue to relive the past. He had to live for the future._

_ Horatio sank into an armchair then, and Fanny squeezed his shoulders, offering what little comfort she could._

_ "I love him so much," the young man told his wife. She merely nodded._

_ "I know you do, Horatio, I know you do."_

* * *

><p>"Arthur? Arthur!" And England was pulled out of yet another flashback. Horatio's concern worsened. "Arthur...please...what upsets you so?"<p>

"Nothing, nothing."

"Then why are there tears on your face?" A calloused thumb swept delicately under Arthur's eye and Nelson held it up. There: a single tear drop. Arthur touched his own face and felt several more.

He was crying.

Instead of answering, the country surged upwards, nearly upending them both in the process, and threw his arms around his Commodore.

"Arthur?"

"Horatio...my beloved Horatio! I...I cannot...you and I...we will lose each other...I cannot..." And Nelson understood. Arthur was thinking of their inevitable separation, just as he himself had one too many times. There was nothing Nelson could think to say to that. No way to quell that fear. After all, death was inevitable for him. He just wrapped his arms around Arthur as tightly as he could and buried his face in his country's chest. Most times, they were fine. But, every now and then, it would hit England that Nelson was mortal, that eventually he would die. And, it was for this reason, that Arthur had tried to break it off before.

* * *

><p><em>"Arthur! My dearest! You must see!" The young man raced into the lavish room, holding a set <em>_of papers aloft and smiling excitedly. "I have my own ship! Look! The HMS _Boreas_! Oh, isn't it wonderful?" Arthur looked up from the stack of papers at his desk, his expression pained. Horatio stopped in his tracks, his smile fading. "Arthur?"_

_ "How is Elizabeth?"_

_ "Elizabeth?" Horatio's expression was nothing short of completely befuddled. Then he remembered: the clergyman's daughter. He hadn't thought of her for a while. "I wouldn't know. I am afraid we are no longer in contact." Arthur turned away from him._

_ "Shame," he said, standing up._

_ "Why is that? As I recall, you were quite displeased with me for entertaining thoughts of her."_

_ "Yes, well, I've come to realize a few things."_

_ "Such as?" Arthur turned those pained green eyes on him, the gaze heavy and piercing._

_ "You need a wife, Nelson," he said. "I'll admit that I was jealous of Elizabeth, but you should have married her. You still could..."_

_ "But I don't want to. I have you."_

_ "Don't be a damned fool, Nelson! This has to end!" And Nelson stepped back, the papers slipping out of his hand._

_ "Pardon?"_

_ "We can't keep this up. It's not right for you, and it's not right for me." The young officer was shaking his head, unable to believe what he was hearing._

_ "No, no that's not true!"_

_ "Yes it is, and we both know it." Arthur ended up nearly tipping over when Horatio grabbed hold of him, embracing him tightly._

_ "It's not true. I _want _to be with you. I don't want to be married, not yet. I thought I did. I thought Elizabeth would be the one. But she wasn't. I have a new command now, and I have you, and you've been with me for several years. I don't need a wife, not yet. I will have one, but I will not let you go."_

* * *

><p>It had been horrible almost to the point of being traumatizing. When Horatio had first met his country, he had been twelve, and his uncle Maurice had introduced them. He'd been shy, unable to comprehend the swell of feelings that came with seeing England in the flesh. Maurice had explained the feeling as patriotism, and told him that everyone who met their nation felt it. It was indeed true, but as Nelson grew older and saw England more often, the feeling morphed into something deeper. He loved England, his home, but he also loved Arthur, the man. And now England was going back to that place. He would leave the bed and attempt to leave the Commodore's life...and that just couldn't happen.<p>

"You needn't think of such things," he told the blond man, gently pushing him back down. "I am here now. My life is short, and I cannot be with you as long as I'd like, but you mustn't focus on that. I want you to focus on the present, and to enjoy our time together as I am trying to. Please."

"Horatio..."

"Stop it." Horatio kissed him again, kissed him desperately and threaded his fingers through his hair. England wanted to protest, but Nelson wouldn't let him. Arthur gave up the struggle and surrendered to his beloved Commodore, and clung to him tightly as they lay together.

* * *

><p><em>After Santa Cruz de Tenerife<em>

"You fool!" Arthur cried at him, standing in the doorway of the ship's infirmary. "You damned, damned fool!" Nelson merely smiled at him and shook his head before gesturing for the country to join him. Arthur was at his side in an instant, still furious (and concerned).

"It's alright," the naval officer said, voice pained and yet cheerful. "I've still got one left." He held up his (only) arm to demonstrate, but it did nothing to calm Arthur's fury.

"You...you...I can't believe you! _Got one left_!" England was shaking his head, and Horatio merely offered him another smile before leaning forward to kiss him. Arthur pulled away. "No...I am not letting you get away with this one!" Nelson sighed and leaned back against the pillow.

"My country," he said, voice tired. "I am the one who lost the arm. It is very painful, and I was hoping that, rather than give me a tongue-lashing, you might comfort me." England blushed. Was he being too harsh? He didn't think so. But then, his dear Horatio probably was suffering, and wanted someone to care. He sighed deeply. Honestly, he was far too lenient with the fool.

"My darling, my Horace," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss the officer gently on the lips. He embraced the injured Commodore, careful to avoid the bandages around what remained of his arm. "I suppose I should not snap at you, but I feared I would lose you when I saw all that blood. I just...I love you." Horatio smiled once again.

"I love you," he told his country, his friend, his lover. "You needn't fear...I am not so easy to be rid of, and I've no intention of leaving just yet."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**- Horatio Nelson: British Naval Hero of the Napoleonic Wars and one of my historical crushes. He ended up with one eye, one arm, and was seasick his entire life. And he was still totally badass. **

**- Yes, I totally ship him with England. I _did_ say I ship him with everyone. I meant it.**

**- Battle of Cape St. Vincent: Conflict between Spanish and British Navies. Nelson, a Commodore at the time, was placed in command of the HMS _Captain_ and the story I told was true: he did indeed take two ships, the _San Nicolas _and the _San Josef_, buy jumping on to one (_San Nicolas_) and using it as a bridge to take the other. Both ships, even individually, outgunned him. The _San Josef _had more than a hundred guns, while the _Captain_ had somewhere around seventy-four. I don't remember how many the _San Nicolas_ had, but I think it was around eighty, possibly more. (Too lazy to look it up).**

**- George: Better known as King George III, he was the King of England through the Napoleonic Wars.**

**- Fanny: Nelson's wife. He didn't actually spend all that much time with her, but he wrote to her constantly. **

**- HMS _Boreas_: One of Nelson's many ships. I believe it was even his first command after he was made a Captain.**

**- Elizabeth: Elizabeth Andrews was a clergyman's daughter who Nelson fell in love with and thought of marrying. Needless to say, he did not.**

**- Maurice: Maurice Suckling, Nelson's uncle. He was in the Navy and was basically Nelson's benefactor when it came to his nephew's career.**

**- The Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife: Engagement between the Spanish and the British. Nelson was getting off the HMS _Seahorse_ to join his men in the attack when he was shot through the arm and had to have it amputated.**


	9. Arc VIII: I Haste to Thee My Mother

_HoshiUta: Okay, well...maybe there are some exceptions. Basically, imagine all of the horrible villains in history – those are the people I DEFINITELY don't ship England with, for obvious reasons. I do ship him with a LOT of people though: nearly all the nations (though I've kind of fallen off the USUK bandwagon), Elizabeth I, Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, William Shakespeare, and many other figures from history like that – the good guys, the heroes, as it were XD_

_~ In regards to the Danelaw, s/he won't replace Denmark and Denmark's initial introduction to England, s/he'll just be there to help it along, and other such things : )_

_Also, a big thank you to ThE-faInTinG-faNGirl for adding this story to her favorites! I know I've said this several times, but it really does mean a lot to me that people like this story._

_Title today comes from "I Vow To Thee My Country" by Sir Cecil Spring-Rice, and (the version I know) sung by Katherine Jenkins. It comes from the second verse, which usually isn't sung._

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><p><strong>Arc VIII: Months – I Haste to Thee My Mother, a Son Among Thy Sons<strong>

The past nine months had been a blur to Arthur. A blur of meetings, papers, controversies, rising debts, riots, and exhaustion. He could hardly remember any of those long days, or those sleepless nights. He was pretty sure Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland had been around more than usual. Portugal, too. And the Commonwealth. But maybe he was just going delusional. He hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in weeks.

Make that months.

The only reason he was still alive, he knew, and still sane, was that he was a nation. He'd been eating here and there, whenever he could grab a few bites. But, lately, his schedule just seemed fuller. There were _so many _papers to be read and signed, so many people to call and hold long, pointless conversations with – or maybe there wasn't: those things couldn't all have needed to be completed immediately...he must just be a workaholic.

Or was he? Maybe there was just more work and he _needed_ to get it done...he was getting another headache. Thankfully, he was home...almost: just a few more steps, or was it more? He could see his house, but sometimes it looked closer, sometimes farther. He couldn't really tell.

"Mr. Kirkland?" A distant voice asked. England turned towards it. His neighbor's daughter, Ms. Forsythe, was smiling cautiously at him. "Are you quite alright?" She was a nice young woman, fresh out of college and looking after her elderly mother. He didn't know what he said, but she frowned. "You've been staggering from side to side ever since you got out of your car. Which you parked unreasonably far from your own home, dear." England didn't know what to tell her. He took another step...and the ground fell away from him. He would have fallen over if Ms. Forsythe hadn't grabbed hold of him, pulling him against her and helping him to his home, ignoring his mumbled words.

She took his keys from him and unlocked his door, leading him gently into the house. She pushed him down on to his couch, and took his briefcase from him, tutting at the dark bags under his eyes. She even took his phone and his last vision of his neighbor was her scrolling through his contacts and calling someone, speaking to them on his phone before he passed out.

* * *

><p>He woke up to voices at his door and pleasant smells drifting in from his kitchen and music playing in the background. He opened his eyes and saw Davy at the door, talking to Ms. Forsythe.<p>

"Thank you, thank you so much for helping him," Davy was saying.

"I just can't believe how bad things got for him...he was always so good to my mother, you know."

"I know," Davy's shoulders slumped. "We honestly had no idea, but we'll look after him now. He's in good hands, Ms. Forsythe."

"I'm glad to see he has such friends," she told him, eyes flickering around the front room. "A man like him needs such friends, seeing as he lives by himself. He'd be so very lonely without you." Davy nodded and the two bid each other good-bye before he closed the door and turned away. His eyes landed on Arthur and widened.

"Everyone! He's awake," and then the Welshman was at his side, pressing the back of his hand to Arthur's forehead and holding the Englishman's hand with the other. There was a sudden rush of foot-steps, which made Arthur groan at the unnecessary aggravation to his headache. He looked away from Davy to a sea of faces looming above him.

"Sheesh, Artie! You shoulda let us know you were sick!" America grumbled. "I'd've been your hero and taken you home and looked after you!"

"Oh, rack off, will ya, ya bloody drongo!" Australia said, shoving the other country. "Ya wouldn't 'ave done a bloody thing and we all know it!" America wanted to protest, but New Zealand shouldered him aside.

"Shut it, both of you," he grumbled at them, before turning to England. "You alright, Arthur?" The blond's head was throbbing in pain, trying too hard to process who exactly was leaning over him.

"Roight, yer lot – back aff an' given 'imself a bit av space," another new voice said, and England was struggling to place it. "'E's not gonna git any better witcha al' breathin' on 'imself." The sea of faces moved away and Arthur once again closed his eyes in exhaustion, feeling cool fingers run through his hair."

"Lloegr," Davy's voice again. "Lloegr, what's happened to you?"

"Ah've gan nar na idea," Arthur told him quietly, only vaguely aware that his accent had slipped from the typical, smoothed off accent he often used around the other nations (Hollywood English, his secretary called it, hiding a smile behind her PDA)."Ah'm just see tired lately."

"What's he saying?" America asked, only to be shushed by another nation who England knew he ought to remember, but he just couldn't...

"'Oy much sleep 'av yer been gettin' lately?" That voice was then finally attached to a face, and England couldn't help but wonder if sleep deprivation had made him delusional.

"Irelan'? Wat am yoo doin eya? Am I dreamen?" Yet another accent change. He was just so tired...

"Naw, boyo, you're not dreamin'," Ireland said gently, green eyes glimmering, auburn hair hanging around his face. He offered the Englishman a cautious smile. "Nigh answer de quesshun." England forced himself awake, not pleased at all with this half-awake state he was in.

"Ay...don't kun. Enuff. Am sound," his accent was somewhere in Liverpool now, but he was far beyond caring, despite the clamor of confusion coming from the nations standing off to the side. The pleasant smells in the kitchen made his stomach rumble, but he had something else on his mind. All those papers... "Ay should get up and get some weerk done...'aven't got de time ter be lay'n about like this." And he pushed Davy away, attempting to stand up. That was a mistake. At least ten nations, Ireland included, flew toward him, all yelling for him to lay down. At the same time, his head started swimming and he nearly fainted again. He felt two firm hands push him down and looked up at lovely India standing over him, Ireland at his side. The country (his jewel, oh his jewel) was smiling down at him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and one of England's aprons covering his front.

"You faint again, and I'll make you regret it," India told him, still smiling. "Portugal, France, and I have put a lot of effort into making sure you actually eat a decent meal for once. Now, sit down and relax, _meri __jaan_." Ireland sat beside him, Wales on his other side, strong supports while he crumbled and swayed. India nodded in approval at this arrangement and disappeared back into the kitchen, and England could just make out the voices of the two nations he mentioned over the sounds of pots and pans clanging.

"Yer shud relax, boyo," Ireland told him as kindly as possible. "You're really knackered, more knackered than yer nu. yer shud sleep, an' we'll wake up for de mayle, gran' so?" Wales was nodding.

"He's right, _Cariad_, you really ought to just sleep a while longer." England sighed, but agreed, allowing himself to be pushed back down on to his couch. The last things he heard before he fell asleep were Ireland and Wales telling whoever else was there to clear off.

* * *

><p>He woke up again in the dark to a hand shaking his shoulder.<p>

"Come on, lad, time ter wake up," Ireland's soothing voice said. "Dinner's ready." Arthur forced himself awake again, accepting Ireland's help as he stood up and nearly lost his balance.

"Daragh...why are you being so nice to me?" He asked, that "Hollywood English" accent returning to him. Ireland flinched slightly at those words as he led England to the dining-room.

"Come on nigh, Arthur, Oi'm not such a langer, am Oi?" England shrugged.

"You've got plenty of reason to be." Ireland sighed.

"Can we jist try ter 'av wan evenin' withoyt yer lookin' ter peck a scrap?"

"I'm not, it's just..."

"Oi nu, oi nu. Nigh come ter de table an' ayte. Rajendra towl yer earlier 'oy yer man an' Gabriel an' Francis were slavin' away at dis mayle." England nodded and entered the dining-room just behind him.

He was more than slightly shocked at the amount of nations seated at his table. The World Meeting had been held in his country, but he rarely got any guests, even from those who were supposed to be close to him. But here they were now, sitting at that massive, lonely dining table in his lonely house: Australia, America, New Zealand, Canada, France, Portugal, India, Bermuda, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, South Africa, Botswana, St Helena, even Guyana. And more. They couldn't all fit at the table, and thus others had been brought in to fit as many as possible. Not every former colony was there, but enough were...and they were all smiling at him.

"What are you staring at?" Botswana asked, her voice lilting and musical. She was absolutely stunning, dark braids cascading down around her shoulders. "Sit down and eat." He smiled back at her and sat in the seat next to her, Ireland slipping in on her other side.

"You look lovely," he told her cautiously. He still felt so nervous around her, around all of them, actually.

"Thank you," she said brightly, smoothing her hands down her dress. Then she frowned at him. "You look tired." He laughed dryly.

"Yes, I've been hearing that a lot, lately." She patted his hand, her hand calloused and strong. He'd always thought privately that she was a warrior queen, and those hands proved it constantly. Then everyone, once they were certain he was settled, started eating. And everything was pleasantly quiet for a while. It had been a long time since Arthur had had any guests in his house. He'd never thought much about it before...but now, having them all in his home, it was so nice. He hadn't spoken to most of them in a long time. Australia called a few times, but England's conversations with him had always been brief (and England knew this was his fault – he kept them short in order to get work done). New Zealand wrote him, not that he replied much. He saw India far more often, but they rarely spent any time together outside of meetings. South Africa called every Christmas outside of business-related phone-calls, while Kenya called on New Year. Botswana herself made a point of sending Arthur a card and gift on his birthday (he was quite shocked she remembered – he never did). The nation sitting quietly next to America – what was his name? Canada! How could he forget? – tried to visit him more, but England had been so busy, he hardly had the time. Wales and Scotland visited every few days and generally left England with a pounding headache. Northern Ireland called every Saturday and somehow managed to keep England on the phone for over an hour just to talk. Ireland never came to see him, and didn't call either; but then, England hadn't called or visited him either.

He hadn't called or visited or wrote any of them. And yet here they were, all with him when he was sick and in need. Maybe he could try reconnecting with them? Maybe it would be worth it? It was a new year after all...England turned to Botswana, swallowing nervously.

"Botswana..." He said quietly.

"Yes?" She asked, wide brown eyes focusing on him.

"I...I know I've always called you 'Sarah', but I know that's not what you call yourself," he said, swallowing again. He didn't know why he felt this way, maybe because it felt like he was dealing with something incredibly personal..."Would you mind telling me? I think it's only right, seeing as you've been your own nation for decades now, that I call you by the name you chose for yourself." And everyone was suddenly watching them, shocked. There had always been a part of England that had been old and dignified and imperial, and that was the part of him that continued to call the Gambia "Marlene" and South Africa "Benjamin." It was the part of him that had made their attempts to connect with him difficult on their end. Botswana was even more shocked than the rest of them. She had certainly picked her own name. It had been her way of finding her own identity out of the years she'd spent being Bechuanaland, but she'd never expected England to know. It was actually...touching, in a way, that he knew this about her. If he was willing to pay her the respect of using the name she'd given herself, then she could certainly tell him it.

"I'm so glad you want to know," she said, smiling. "I call myself Mmasekgoa these days." He smiled back, still nervous.

"I...think I'll end up butchering that name," he told her. "But I'll give it a go...Mmasekgoa." His pronunciation was definitely off, but she decided to forgive him, since it was his first time saying it, and kissed his cheek instead. He blushed brightly, earning snickers from the rest of the table and a few cat-calls.

"Shut it, all of you," Mmasekgoa said, glaring playfully at all of them. "South Africa, why don't you tell him your name?" And everyone's eyes turned to the handsome, muscular nation seated diagonally from her. He was known to be quite solemn and silent at times, mostly due to the horrid memories of Apartheid which still haunted his dreams. He'd been angry and violent during those times, lashing out at everyone. He was better now, more cheerful, and hosting the World Cup had revealed a playful side to him that people rarely saw.

"I suppose I should, seeing what an important partner you are to me," South Africa said, offering England a half-smile. "I've been calling myself Tumi since all of my people gained the right to vote."

"Tumi," Arthur repeated, smiling back. He spent the rest of the dinner learning the names some of his colonies had chosen in place of the ones he gave them. A tiny part of him hurt doing this, but he knew it was necessary. He knew the power of names, and it was only right that those who felt they ought to changed their names.

* * *

><p>The dinner ended late, and England, though still so very tired, felt better. Some of the nations opted to stay with him, make sure he was alright, and these were Portugal, India, France, and the rest of the British Isles. America wanted to stay, but he was too sauced to stand, and it took Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and South Africa to carry him out so that he could be returned to his hotel. England was rather glad of that – he was one of those nations who had the great misfortune of bearing witness to one of America's hung-over mornings. The blond was vicious and had a rather unfortunate tendency to throw things at people, at walls, at anything. Arthur would rather not have that in his home. Instead he waved goodbye to everyone, promising to call and write, and closed the door, turning to face those who stayed behind. India had retreated into the kitchen to make tea, and France was engaged in a four-way struggle with Wales, Scotland, and Ireland over the remote. That left Portugal, who was standing only a few feet from him, a cautious smile on his face.<p>

"Inglaterra..." he said softly. "I've missed you." England didn't know how to respond to that. He had cared for Portugal, and a part of him still did...he just didn't know what that meant. He'd been spending too much time immersed in his work to think on these things, and look where that got him? An awkward reunion with a person he hadn't spoken to, hadn't had the time or desire to speak to, in years. In his long silence, Portugal had moved closer, while he had somehow managed to step back, until he was up against the door with Portugal almost leaning against him.

"Gab..." He murmured, but Portugal only leaned into press a small kiss to his cheek.

"I won't pressure you into anything," the Iberian nation whispered before moving away and joining the others on the couch. Arthur slipped into the kitchen, leaning against the sturdy island in the center with its old, but well-made countertop. He had distinct memories of Scotland lifting him on to that countertop back in 2007, their three-hundred year anniversary, and doing very naughty things to him there. It was funny to think how so many nations, like Portugal or Scotland, had claimed fragments of his heart and thus became impossible to shake. It made the idea of finding 'true love' seem impossible (the last time he felt that way – that had been Mercia, that had been centuries ago). There were those he wanted to find a way to leave, like France and Portugal, because he felt it would be best for those involved. And those he'd been close to for so long he couldn't imagine a day without them, like Scotland and Wales. Then, there were those that made him feel like a bastard, because he knew his feelings for them were too complicated for him to sort out...Ireland and India.

India, who was working away at making tea and small treats to go with them, was stunning and exotic and just looking at him took his breath away. He even loved the way India's human name sounded (_Rajendra_) and the way his language flowed. India was tall and elegant, and yet so strong and fierce. His dark eyes hid thousands of years of knowledge, and his black hair was soft against England's calloused fingers.

Ireland...England didn't know where to begin with him. There was so much baggage between them, and most of it was England's own fault (he had acknowledged this some time ago). Daragh had been everything he'd wanted for many years, and there was still a great part of him that thought of Daragh that way. But that voice was all but drowned out by the voice that railed on about how inappropriate such a relationship would be: there was so much pain between them, they'd be miserable with each other.

Maybe Portugal was the best option...but that wasn't fair to Gabriel. He deserved better than to be the back-up option.

"What are you thinking about?" India asked, startling England. "You've been staring at me intensely for a long while."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking about anything." India frowned slightly, before shrugging and turning back to the drinks on the counter opposite England.

"Well, the tea's finished, _meri jaan_," he said, picking the tray up to carry into the living-room. England followed him, finding the others watching a film of some sort. They all thanked India for the tea and, after three cups, England found himself lulled to sleep.

He woke up for the third and final time deep into the night, with Wales' arms wrapped tightly, protectively around him.

The last few months had been a blur, but something told England that the next few wouldn't be.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**- Ms. Forsythe is another OC I invented. She lives near Arthur in a small village not far from London. They know each other because, as Ms. Forsythe mentioned, her mother knows him.**

**- This story will eventually gain a prequel (probably) and sequels (definitely). It requires more explanation, I think.**

**- I had to introduce Ireland at some point : ) I'm a big fan of IrelandxEngland. Why? Just am. His full name, if anyone's curious, is Daragh ****ó ****Ceallaigh (Daragh Kelly), and he's around twenty-****eight years old in the modern era. The ages of the British Isles go like this: **

**~ Wales, 35**

**~ Cornwall, 31**

**~ Ireland, 28**

**~ Scotland, 27**

**~ England, 23**

**~ Northern Ireland, 18**

**- Also had to introduce gorgeous India. Because he's gorgeous. And I love IndiaxEngland. They are one of my favorite couples. The name I gave India is Rajendra Chandrasekhar. The surname comes from Candelaria's old India OC on livejournal. Her female India was basically what I imagined India to look like until Himeruya revealed him to be male. I still use the surname, because I like it, but his first name I picked myself. Any Indian anons who want to correct me on spelling, etc. are more than welcome to do so.**

**- Then, of course, there's my African OCs. I'm doing my utmost to make them as realistic as possible. The two that I've really been working on are Botswana and South Africa. My Botswana OC is named Mmasekgoa Khama, and she is a LIONESS in my head-canon. I did a lot of searching for names, but if any folk out there are from Botswana and would like to correct me on my usage of the names, I welcome that too. Bechuanaland was what she was called as a colony. Tumi Khumalo is the name I've picked for South Africa. It is a nod to one of my favorite movies, "White Wedding." One of the characters was named 'Tumi' and I thought it was a nice name. There's still more character-building to do here, but I have a few notes about them that I'll share with you:**

**~ Botswana is a developing nation. She has been fortunate enough to find diamond mines in her land and her government has put them to use building schools and the like, so she's starting to come into her own as a country and she's proud of her growing strength. She, like all of England's colonies, gave herself a name in (one of) her own tongue(s), to prove to herself that she really is her own country.**

**~ South Africa is still in recovery from the horrors of Apartheid. He's trying to move forward, but he does still have a few nightmares about it. He is also a developing nation. According to South Africa's Foreign Relations website, England is his most important trading partner when it comes to fresh produce and the like. He also chose to rejoin the Commonwealth, so I like to imagine that he and England would get on pretty well after they both got over the awkwardness. **

**~ Any South African or Batswana (I believe that's the plural form for someone from Botswana) readers out there, I would once again sincerely appreciate any comments you'd like to make in regards to your country. Anything I should know, what I can do to make the characters richer for when they reappear...anything at all.**

**- Portugal is Candaleria's OC, because hers was the first one I really saw. There are multiple names for him, but I use 'Gabriel.' I actually have a love/hate relationship with EngPort. It's hard to explain.**

**- Once again, I used a translator thing for Ireland, and a Aussie slang dictionary for Australia. I also did a search for Indian endearments. I also used a translator for the accents England slips into. They are, in order: Geordie, Brummie, and Scouse. If there are any Irish, Australian, or Indian readers out there: I'd really like to know what you think about this. If there's anything I can add or that I should know or any corrections that need to be made, please don't hesitate to tell me. I want them to be as real as possible. And to any readers who are themselves from the North, Birmingham, or Liverpool (or areas close to those and understand the accents) and would like to make corrections, you, too, are more than welcome to do so.**

**- Translations (just in case):**

**~ (AUS) "Oh, rack off, will ya, ya bloody drongo!" - "Oh, shove off, will you, you bloody dope!" **

**~ (IRE) "Roight, yer lot – back aff an' given 'imself a bit av space...'E's not gonna git any better witcha al' breathin' on 'imself." - "Right, you lot – back off and give him a bit of space...He's not going to get any better with you all breathing on him."**

**~ (GEO) "Ah've gan nar na idea...Ah'm just see tired lately." - "I've got no idea...I'm just so tired lately."**

**~ (IRE) "'Oy much sleep 'av yer been gettin' lately?" - "How much sleep have you been getting lately?"**

**~ (BRU) "Irelan'? Wat am yoo doin eya? Am I dreamen?" - "Ireland? What are you doing here? Am I dreaming?"**

**~ (IRE) "Nigh answer de quesshun." - "Now answer the question." (I didn't translate the first part, because I think it was clear enough ;D).**

**~ (SCO) "Ay...don't kun. Enuff. Am sound..Ay should get up and get some weerk done...'aven't got de time ter be lay'n about like this." - "I...don't know. Enuff. I'm fine...I should get up and get some work done..haven't got the time to be laying about like this."**

**~ (IND) "_Meri jaan._" - "My dear/love."**

**~ (IRE) "Yer shud relax, boyo...You're really knackered, more knackered than yer nu. yer shud sleep, an' we'll wake ye up for de mayle, gran' so?" - "You should relax, boyo...You're really tired, more tired than you know. You should sleep, and we'll wake you up for the meal, alright?"**

**~ (WEL) "_Cariad._" - "Dear."**

**~ (IRE) "Come on nigh, Arthur, Oi'm not such a langer, am Oi?" - "Come on now, Arthur, I'm not such a bastard, am I?"**

**~ (IRE) "Can we jist try ter 'av wan evenin' withoyt yer lookin' ter peck a scrap?" - "Can we just try to have one evening without you looking to pick a fight?"**

**~ (IRE) "Oi nu, oi nu. Nigh come ter de table an' ayte. Rajendra towl yer earlier 'oy yer man an' Gabriel an' Francis were slavin' away at dis mayle." - "I know, I know. Now come to the table and eat. Rajendra told you earlier how he and Gabriel and France were slaving away at this meal."**

**~ (POR) "_Inglaterra_." - "England."  
><strong>

**- Another note: it's my head-canon that Arthur, when he's tired, sleepy, or drunk, can't control his accent. England actually has a very wide variety of regional accents and dialects, and I wanted to acknowledge that. "Hollywood English" is a phrase I've heard used in reference to the sort of smoothed off accent one hears in a lot of Hollywood movies and on TV: you know, the one free of any regional differences, etc. Head-canon says that England either uses that or a somewhat posh accent when dealing with the other nations, so that he's better understood.**

**- I'm so sorry this took so long. I honestly wrote three different versions and scrapped all of them and wrote this, which I think is much better than the others were. I hope you lot agree and that you enjoy reading it! **

**- Also, if you do read this, please leave a review! I'm anxious to hear your thoughts on this, and I have other writer's choice prompts to hand out at the landmark (1, 10, 20, 30, etc.) reviews! Let me know what you think of the story!  
><strong>


	10. Arc IX: If You Were The Only Girl

_I'm so sorry I've taken so long to update this. I didn't like the other attempts at this chapter that I'd made, but then I fell in love with "Downton Abbey" and it gave me the inspiration I needed : )_

_ThE-faInTinG-faNGirl: Thank you for reviewing, and I'm so glad that you like it! I was rather nervous about introducing all of those relationships, but I'm happy that you enjoy figuring them out :D I do hope to make them a little bit clearer as things go along, because there'll be even more to include XD_

_HoshiUta: 300__th anniversary? You got it! I think I'm going to slip out of order for a bit and do that one soon. I have such love for ScotEng, and I want to do something fluffy and romantic. Keep an eye out for it! And of course you're worthy of praise for "Red and White," it was AMAZING! I loved it!_

_Title comes from the song of the same name by Clifford Grey and Nat D. Ayer. Anyone who watches "Downton Abbey" will recognize it as the song Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley sing together._

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><p><strong>Arc IX: Years – If You Were The Only Girl In The World<strong>

"_Sometimes when I feel bad  
>And things look blue<br>I wish a pal I had...say one like you..._"

The war had been dragging on two long years, and Belgium was exhausted. Her body was battered mess of bruises, scars, and burns, and her face was wet with the tears she'd tried so hard to hold in. She wanted to be strong for her boys, strong for her girls, strong for everyone in her land who had been damaged and displaced by this godforsaken war. She loved them all, and, standing almost knee-deep in the muck of the trenches with them had made her so much more aware of that fact.

"_Someone within my heart to build a throne  
>Someone who'd never part, to call my own...<em>"

The voice pulled her out of her thoughts as it echoed quietly in the trench. Perfect pitch, and it shook with emotion as it hit each note, sang each word. She looked around, trying to figure out who this gifted singer was. It was not one of hers, she knew that for sure. Whoever it was, she longed to answer that voice. But she had not sung for years. The war had taken her voice from her.

"_If you were the only girl in the world..._"

She moved quietly along the trench, searching for that voice. She might not be able to sing for herself, but she wanted to know the man who could. She wanted to stand before him and listen, captivated and then thank him for the song in this darkened, painful place.

"_And I were the only boy..,_"

To say she was shocked when she found him would be a gross understatement. For, in the all the years she'd known him, Belgium had never heard England sing. In fact, she'd been quite certain that he couldn't. But there he was, in his mud and blood-spattered uniform, singing for a group of soldiers. Some were sitting, some were standing; some were smoking, some were polishing their guns, some were just standing there...and some were weeping, silently. She quietly joined the group, hoping England would not notice her. If he did, she feared he would stop. And she did not want him to stop.

"_Nothing else would matter in the world today  
>We could go on loving in the same old way...<em>"

She blinked rapidly, her eyes unnaturally hot and her cheeks damper than usual. She was weeping again, the tears sliding over her filthy cheeks. England himself was wrapped in bandages, covered in burns and bruises and clearly just as tired as she was. But he was still singing into the quiet of the trench. It was not one of the manor houses they, as Empires, had been used to. She was not in her fine furs and silks and he was not in his suits and medals. In fact, she wondered if they would even recognize themselves, were they to look upon those old photographs of themselves from that era. She doubted it. For in those pictures would be clean, well-fed, richly-clothed versions of themselves living in a world so very far from the world they inhabited now. A world where they were both haggard and filthy and battered. A world where the romance and rose-tinted dances and dinners and conversations seemed foolish; the stuff of fairy-tales. This was the real world.

"_A garden of Eden made just for two..._"

It seemed England was thinking the same thing, for his voice faded off and his head bowed, unable to go on. The soldiers looked to him desperately. The song had been an escape for them. It had made them think of home, whether in Brussels or London, Manchester or Antwerp or any of the numerous towns, cities, and villages where they had dwelt before honor and conscription had forced them to the front. They needed that song.

"_With nothing to mar our joy_," Belgium heard herself sing, her voice cracking and weak. Everyone's eyes were suddenly on her, including England's. His were wide, shocked. She offered him a tiny, shy smile. The next lines were sung together.

"_I would say such wonderful things to you  
>There would be such wonderful things to do<br>If you were the only girl in the world  
>And I were the only boy...<em>"

Their voices held the final note, his strong, honeyed tenor and her gradually strengthening soprano letting it taper off slowly into the heavy silence following the performance. They had stared at each other throughout the last verse, and they continued to stare even when the soldiers started applauding. She offered him another smile, and, this time, he returned it gratefully. It had been a long time since she had seen him smile and before she even realized what she was doing, she'd thrown herself at him, embracing him, whispering her thanks over and over. He hugged her back, burying his face in her shoulder.

Suddenly, the sound of whistles and the men were up, scurrying to the ladders. She got to her own and turned to see England getting readying to climb his, a line of men forming behind him as the officers in the trench shouted out orders.

As Belgium prepared to go over the top, she found herself thanking England all over again, albeit silently. Two years of war, of pain, of exhaustion, and he had managed to give her a few moments of peace just by singing a song. She smiled to herself. When this war was over, they would sing that song together in the peace that followed, dressed up and well-fed as she played the piano and he stood gallantly beside her, his strong, calloused hand on her shoulder.

_I would say such wonderful things to you  
>There would be such wonderful things to do<br>If you were the only girl in the world  
>And I were the only boy.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**- I'm sorry the chapter is short, but I wanted to write it as a brief moment in time during an ugly conflict, not as a long, drawn-out tale. Though there will be some like that, most likely.**

**- The war Belgium and England are in is, of course, World War I.**

**- The song is period-appropriate: it was written in 1916. I used the Wikipedia article on the song to get the lyrics and the names of the writers.  
><strong>

**- I definitely intend to write much more about World War I, and those chapters will hopefully be longer.**

**- That's really all I have to say, except to remind people that it is meant to harken back to the scene in "Downton Abbey" where Mary and Matthew sing the song together. So I gladly give credit to Julian Fellowes, creator of the series, and to all involved in bringing that magnificent show to life.**


	11. Arc X: No Dawn, No Day

_Hello, everyone! I'm back again with another chapter of "Darkest Before the Dawn"!_

_Thank you to HimochiIsAwesome for adding this to your favorite stories list! I'm so, so glad you like it and I hope you and all the others who read this story continue to enjoy it!_

_Title for this chapter comes from "Cosmic Love" by Florence + The Machine_

* * *

><p><strong>Arc X: Red – No Dawn, No Day<strong>

There were many, Wales knew, who stared at England and saw only his gleaming medals, shined sword, polished boots, and bright red uniform. Indeed, the red was blinding all on its own. It stood out in a crowd, as it was certainly meant to. Both romantic and dangerous. In many ways, the others thought, it characterized England. Showy and bombastic and romantic and dangerous. But then, Wales knew him better than they did.

The red was to hide, not to show off.

The other nations (France, Portugal, that fool America) all thought they knew England somehow, that they could define him, label him, put him on a shelf, then take him down when they had need of him. But England was too complicated for that. His uniform, his bright red uniform in a sea of blue and black suits, got everyone's attention, but not England himself. The thing swallowed him up, washed out his features, made him seem colorless. And he was anything but.

England was a bright and shimmering romantic, a shade of red and other colors unfound in this world. But not in the sense the others thought. War, glory, and the endless ocean of wealth that came with empire meant little to him. He was a man bound to the earth, who dreamt endlessly of the sky.

Wales saw him constantly staring up at the stars, knowing how the younger nation wished to reach up and claim them for his own. Wales understood that there had been a time, long ago, before he and England really knew each other, when the other nation had possessed strong, beautiful wings capable of taking him higher and higher such that the stars were well-within his grasp. But England never brought up that time, refused to, even, and Wales could not bring himself to ask for fear of causing the other untold injury. 1066, the year France spoke of with a smile when he wished to bring England down a few notches, had been the year that England's wings had been torn from his back and he had crashed violently to earth, unable to return to the sky he so loved.

Portugal, meanwhile, looked at England and saw a nation who loved the freedom of the seas as much as he did. He saw a companion for long and lonely voyages and imagined that England saw the same. England, however, had no love for the seas, not like Portugal. _The blue of endless oceans is close enough to the blue of endless skies_, England had muttered to him once, drunk and sad. _I will simply carry on pretending as I have always done and it will all work itself out in the end...eventually_. Wales had asked him if he was certain that he'd be able to wait that long. _I suppose I'll just have to be_, England had replied, with the saddest smile Wales had yet seen on his face.

And England had done exactly that. He spent the centuries waiting for it all to sort itself out. He wore his red uniform which did not match his shade of red and wore medals that shined almost (not at all) like the stars in the sky and called himself happy. He lit candles and turned on gaslights and built roaring fires in great, cavernous rooms and to him it would be the sky and it would be enough even though it wasn't. He sailed the oceans a broken person, searching for endless skies in finite waters and finding only the rippling reflection of what he'd become in the years since his fall. And Wales watched him crumble piece by piece even as he tried to fix himself up. And Dafydd saw Arthur gradually lose himself in false reds and false stars and false skies.

He knew, of course, that Arthur would one day come to accept his chains and try to make something of the earth around him. He built a house. The biggest and most beautiful in all of England. With grand hallways and grander rooms and a massive chandelier in the ballroom (it glittered, didn't it? Glittered like the stars in Arthur's beloved sky). He built it himself from the ground up and filled it with all the beautiful things in the world: gold and silk and satin and paintings and treasures from the farthest corners of the earth. He built it and built it and poured his heart and his soul and his dreams of endless skies into it. And when it was done, he stepped back with a smile and turned to Wales, breathless and beautiful and _happy_ and asked him who wouldn't want to live in a house like that. Wales did not have the heart to tell him that a cage, however beautifully gilded, was a cage nonetheless. And England could not cage anyone anymore than he could cage himself.

When Wales and the rest of the Empire found themselves moved into this place, he was the only one to notice that there was red everywhere. Small amounts of red in all different places (the curtains, the throw-pillows) to keep from being tacky or overpowering. But Wales knew that every shade of red was there, except for England's red...the beautiful red that colored England's cheeks and soul along with all his other colors and meant all the things the others did not associate with the nation-turned-empire. But when Wales turned to gaze at England, he found he could not see England any longer: the bright red of the uniform had swallowed England's red, had swallowed his colors and his dreams and all the stars in the sky were ground to dust in the new person standing before them: the British Empire.

It was the Empire that replaced stars with jewels and unfound colors with popular shades and the skies with the seas. He polished his jewels and lit his fires and kept his house and colonies in order and thought it all beautiful. He removed all traces of England from the house, making it a house for all of them, a house that Wales knew would be suffocating and impossible to live in in the end.

And he was right. America left it first, a little bird suffocated by a grand and beautiful nest. And that shattered England's illusions. He did not care that it was America who left the nest, he would have been shattered by anyone who did. What had caused him to fall to his knees in the rain and mud that fateful day was the realization that what he had done, that all of his efforts were for nothing. A false sky was not enough, and he had been too far gone to see it.

But rather than learn from this mistake, England regressed and the British Empire swallowed more of him. The skies were shut out and the cage was locked and Wales watched as the nation he had once called England folded himself up and sealed himself away in a pocket, a box, a locket, anything that would contain his burning desire to fly away. He was an Empire of the Earth, and his roots were strong as they poured beneath the ground and connected to him to all his colonies, whom he kept in a vise-like grip. _The Sun never sets on the British Empire_, the Imperial Nation had whispered proudly to him. _Indeed_, Wales had replied, _and that it was why it will forever be unattainable to the British Empire_. And, in that moment, the Empire's mask had crumbled just slightly, revealing the raw, vulnerable kingdom within. Dafydd wanted to comfort him, but Arthur needed to hear those words. Needed to desperately, so that he was not completely subsumed by the Empire. If there was one thing Wales refused to accept, it was that England was completely lost to him, all of them.

But it was nearly impossible. As the Empire grew, so did England's vanity and insecurity. He was easily insulted, made enemies where previously he had none, alienated those who cared for him. He threw Scotland out of the house, and declared that he was never to come back. He locked Ireland in his bedroom, half-in-love with the redhead and more than a little desperate to keep him. Daragh had raged against him and broke down his own door, stealing away in the night. England watched him go, remarking quietly to Wales how the stars lit up Ireland's hair and how fair the other nation was. He would return, eventually. Of that, England was confident. And that was the epitome of the Empire's vanity: he believed they would all come back to him, that they would condemn themselves to the false skies, just as he did. Because he was strong, and more than capable of creating a world for them in which they would be safe and entertained and he would never need to fear for any of them. The real world would not crush them, as it had crushed England, because he would be their shield. If they wanted the heavens and the stars, he would give them such fine imitations that they wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

And again, Wales had not the heart to tell him that they would know the imitations, and, moreover, they would reject them.

With his expanding power and wealth, England decided that he wanted a spouse to reflect his influence. Naturally, he ignored those nations in his corner of the earth, whom he had known for centuries, and picked another. They were not good enough, not in England's mind. Scotland had fallen out of England's good graces (their love was turbulent as a storm, and just as magnificent) and while England was certainly half-in-love with Ireland, there was a part of him that hated Daragh, that never wanted to see him again (except when he did, and that was nothing if not confusing). Wales himself was no longer considered even to be a separate entity from England, and he could feel his own resentment brewing because of this. He could only guess at Cornwall's feelings, because Grifiud had retreated into himself, trying to keep some small part of his culture alive.

In the end, it was India who was chosen. England dressed him up in silks and jewels and brushed his hair until it shone. He brought India to the fancy balls France hosted and preened under the jealous stares. The silk that India wore was naturally red, but it was not England's red, and somehow, Wales could not help wonder if perhaps India knew, too, that it was a poor imitation of England's colors. He wondered if India would have been more accepting, if it had been. But it was useless to think on that, for India resented being paraded around like some trophy. But that was all he was made to do, for England never took any of his colonies to his bed, not unless they consented. India had consented, a few times, because he felt _something_ for England. It was almost impossible not to. Whether familial or romantic, England did have a certain magnetism to him, and that was not always a good thing. It fed his vanity and thus fed his Empire. If everyone wanted him, then certainly they wouldn't mind being _kept _by him.

But it wasn't really _England _they wanted, it was the _British Empire_. They were attracted to his medals, his wealth, his industries, his bright red uniforms. All of the things that concealed England, but showed off the Empire. Because they didn't know England, and, if Arthur had his way, he never would. Wales sighed at the pomp of England's ambitions, mourned the loss of the man he could have loved.

* * *

><p><em>1947<em>

"I just don't understand him!" America snapped, pacing back and forth. "I mean, I come all the way over here and I help him beat Germany and he won't even thank me! He's the most arrogant, insufferable jerk I've ever met! No _wonder _the entire Empire is so desperate to get away from him! He can't see anything beyond his own pomposity!"

"No," Wales said calmly, taking a long drag off his cigarette as he watched England pace the room. "You're the one who doesn't see." America stopped, staring at him in shock.

"What the hell do you mean! You should be damned thankful I came at all!"

"Oh, I am," Wales said, in that strange tone that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or sarcastic. "But you don't know England at all. Don't worry though, you're not the only one. And it's England's fault that you don't know him anyway." America stared at him for a moment.

"Yeah...you're going to have to explain that one." Wales sighed tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Look, England isn't as simple as all that. That _pomposity _is him to a certain extent, but it is also a front he puts up to keep you and the others away."

"Why?"

"Because he wouldn't want you to think him weak."

"And you're telling me this because..."

"Because someone ought to know, and it might as well be you. Now be quiet and let me explain...You are not as different from Arthur as you'd like to think you are. He reached for stars just like you, and when he realized he could not reach them, he surrounded himself with jewels and thought them pretty enough to replace those stars. Now he's forced to recognize something he's always secretly known: they aren't enough, and it's made him angry and cynical. Just let him be for a while, alright? He'll come around." America looked away, considering for a moment, before smiling and nodding.

"Alright, Wales! Thanks!" He left the London townhouse then, where he'd been waiting with Wales for England to make an appearance. Wales sighed again. It wasn't a real explanation. It didn't even begin to describe _who_ Arthur was, and _what_ the previous centuries had meant for him. But it would have to do for now. America would hopefully figure it out eventually. If not him, someone else then. England deserved to have someone who would look at him and see _him_, not the Empire.

Maybe then England's red and all his colors would return to him, and the sky and the stars would not seem so distant.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**- Okay, so this was a real "stream of consciousness" chapter, with me attempting to lay out more of my views of England and what it was to be him even at the height of his power. If it's hard to understand, I'm so sorry, and I'm going to try and make it clearer as the story goes on.**

**- It is my head-canon that both Wales and Cornwall are the only two nations who _really _understand him, because of how long they've lived with him. Thus, they are more patient with him than the others are, because they _get_ him.**

**- India sort of understands, but not completely. He wants to, though. America does as well, in his own odd little way.**


End file.
